A Comparative History of Literatures in the Iberian Peninsula : Volume II [1 ed.] 9789027266910, 9789027234650

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A Comparative History of Literatures in European Languages

A Comparative History of Literatures in the Iberian Peninsula Volume II

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam/Philadelphia

A COMPARATIVE HISTORY OF LITERATURES IN THE IBERIAN PENINSULA VOLUME II

A COMPARATIVE HISTORY OF LITERATURES IN EUROPEAN LANGUAGES SPONSORED BY THE INTERNATIONAL COMPARATIVE LITERATURE ASSOCIATION HISTOIRE COMPARÉE DES LITTÉRATURES DE LANGUES EUROPÉENNES SOUS LES AUSPICES DE L’ASSOCIATION INTERNATIONAL DE LITTÉRATURE COMPARÉE

Coordinating Committee for A Comparative History of Literatures in European Languages Comité de Coordination de l’Histoire Comparée des Littératures de Langues Européennes 2016–2019 President/Président Karen-Margrethe Lindskov Simonsen (Aarhus University) Vice-President/Vice-Président Mark Bennion Sandberg (University of California, Berkeley) Secretary/Secrétaire César Dómínguez (University of Santiago de Compostela & Sichuan University) Treasurer/Trésorier Vivian Liska (University of Antwerp) Members/Membres assesseurs Helena Buescu, Massimo Fusillo, Dirk Göttsche Margaret-Anne Hutton, Patrizia Lombardo, Helga Mitterbauer, Birgit Neumann, Thomas Pavel, Galin Tihanov, Anja Tippner, Dirk Van Hulle, Robert Weninger Past Presidents Marcel Cornis-Pope (Virginia Commonwealth University) Margaret R. Higonnet (University of Connecticut) Randolph D. Pope (Charlottesville) † Henry H.H. Remak (Indiana) Mihály Szegedy-Maszák (Bloomington) Mario J. Valdés (Toronto) † Jacques Voisine (Paris) Jean Weisgerber (Bruxelles) Past Secretaries Svend Erik Larsen (Aarhus University) Daniel F. Chamberlain (Kingston) † Milan V. Dimić (Edmonton) Margaret R. Higonnet (Storrs) † György M. Vajda (Budapest)

Volume XXIX A Comparative History of Literatures in the Iberian Peninsula. Volume II Edited by César Domínguez, Anxo Abuín González and Ellen Sapega

A COMPARATIVE HISTORY OF LITERATURES IN THE IBERIAN PENINSULA VOLUME II Edited by CÉSAR DOMÍNGUEZ ANXO ABUÍN GONZÁLEZ

Universidade de Santiago de Compostela & Sichuan University

ELLEN SAPEGA

University of Wisconsin-Madison

JOHN BENJAMINS PUBLISHING COMPANY AMSTERDAM/PHILADELPHIA

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TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

doi 10.1075/chlel.xxix Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from Library of Congress: lccn 2009051900 isbn 978 90 272 3465 0 (Hb) isbn 978 90 272 6691 0 (e-book) © 2016 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Company · https://benjamins.com

Table of contents

Presidential Preface to Vol. 2 of A Comparative History of Literatures in the Iberian Peninsula Karen-Margrethe Simonsen xi Introduction César Domínguez, Anxo Abuín González and Ellen Sapega

1

Section I.  Images

Coordinator: Dorothy Odartey-Wellington

Inter(-in)ventions: Images of national identity in the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula Dorothy Odartey-Wellington

5

Galician literature and the imaginary: Functions and problems Antón Figueroa and Elias J. Torres Feijó

11

“Catalonia is not Spain”: Images of self and other in Catalan literature Stewart King

20

On the origins of images of gypsies Araceli Cañadas Ortega

32

The others in Golden Age drama Santiago Fernández Mosquera

43

Images of the “condemned” Europeans in the satiric works of Francisco de Quevedo Irene Bertuzzi

55

Vulnerability and the literary imagination in the Basque context: Julia Otxoa, Bernardo Atxaga, and Luisa Etxenike Annabel Martín

64

The odyssey of Spanish Jews: Un-homely Sefarad Dosinda García-Alvite

74

Self-images and hetero-images in Portuguese youth literature Francesca Blockeel

87

Regional images and the struggle for life in Madrilenian literature Enrique Fernández Rivera Newcomers and host nations: Literary images associated with immigrants in Spanish fictional narrative Dorothy Odartey-Wellington

100

112

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Table of contents

Section II.  Genres

Coordinator: Maria Fernanda de Abreu

Introduction: Laws and (inter-)texts Maria Fernanda de Abreu

125

Sefer ha-meshalim and the status of poetry in medieval Iberia Isabelle Levy

131

Pastoral. The pastoral romance Maria do Céu Fraga

138

Books of chivalry: Outline of a genre Isabel Almeida

155

The sonnet in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century Xosé Manuel Dasilva

171

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century) Maria Fernanda de Abreu

184

Religious and literary canons: Interferences and dissociations (sixteenth to eighteenth century) Zulmira C. Santos

200

The historical novel Maria de Fátima Marinho

206

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula José Camões and Maria João Brilhante

217

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative Elena Losada

240

Writing of the self: Iberian diary writing Enric Bou and Heike Scharm

256

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature Euriell Gobbé-Mévellec

268

The essay Enric Bou and Ángel Otero-Blanco

282

Section III.  Forms of Mediation

Coordinators: Cesc Esteve and María José Vega

Forms of mediation in the history of the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula Cesc Esteve and María José Vega

293

Imitatio, rewriting and tradition: Shields in Iberian epics Lara Vilà

307

Table of contents

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Translation and cultural mediation in the fifteenth-century Hispanic kingdoms: The case of the Catalan-speaking lands Josep Pujol

319

Paratexts and mediation: The case of Ausiàs March in the sixteenth century Cesc Esteve Quis libri legendi: The canon and the forms of its assimilation in Renaissance rationes studiorum Iveta Nakládalová Translation in diaspora: Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century David Wacks The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment: On the imperial-colonial and Morisco-Basque mediations of the Spanish Enlightenment Joseba Gabilondo The anthology as instrument of mediation María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar Cultural nationalism and school Isabel Clúa Ginés

327

339 351

364 381 400

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country: Origins of a literary subfield Ur Apalategi

409

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal: An overview of the literature translated in periods of dictatorship in the Iberian Peninsula  Cristina Gómez Castro

424

Section IV.  Cultural Studies and Literary Repertoires Coordinator: Anxo Abuín González

Forever young: Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies Anxo Abuín González

439

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890 Santiago Díaz Lage

452

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration Serge Salaün

466

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula David Viñas Piquer

482

Postdigital fiction: Exit and memory Germán Sierra

498

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The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature: Some examples from the Iberian Peninsula Joan-Elies Adell

507

“Light changes the placement of things”: Immigration, gender, and resistance in hip-hop music María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar

520

Notes on the cinematographic canon and its relation to the theory of genres in a Spanish and Portuguese context José Antonio Pérez Bowie and Fernando González García

531

Television in Spain and Portugal: From the public monopoly to the new transmedia environment Concepción Cascajosa Virino

550

From the radio script to the sound script: An evolving/endangered species in Spain and Portugal Virginia Guarinos

563

Transformations of the graphic novel in Spain: The cases of Max and Miguelanxo Prado Ana Merino Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula: A comparative panorama María Jesús Fariña Busto and Beatriz Suárez Briones

570

579

Epilogue A view from Basque literature: The historian who mistook his literature for an island Frederik Verbeke

605

A view from Catalan literature: Iberian studies as comparative literature in thick description mode Joan Ramon Resina

611

A view from Galician literature: The state and future of Galician studies in English-speaking academia Gabriel Rei-Doval

621

A view from Portuguese literature: Critical notes towards a transnational perspective Paulo de Medeiros A view from Spanish literature. A new armed vision: Comparative literature in the Iberian Peninsula Germán Gullón A view from comparative history. International comparison: A historian’s approach Heinz-Gerhard Haupt

631

639 646

Table of contents A view from comparative history, I: Comparative literature and literary history Maria Alzira Seixo

ix 650

A view from comparative history, II: A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula? Santiago Pérez Isasi

653

References

665

Bioprofiles

723

Index

741

Presidential Preface to Vol. 2 of A Comparative History of Literatures in the Iberian Peninsula Karen-Margrethe Simonsen To write a literary history is to set a new agenda for reading old literature. The necessary and huge archival work — the gold digging in the past — is always also a re-interpretative effort that reflects the present and points to the future. What shines most in the eyes of the literary historian is what seems to hold the future of the literary historian’s own present. As Nietzsche says in the The use and abuse of history, “You can explain the past only by what is most powerful in the present.” Yet the work of the literary historian is not only to find isolated pieces of gold, valued for their ‘inherent’ qualities. The work of the literary historian is rather to understand the complex chemistry of any piece of gold, its malleable, transitional character, its inherent history, its embeddedness within a geologically formed and layered environment and its qualities and character, seen in relation to other metals. In the literary histories, co-ordinated by CHLEL, the re-interpretative, comparative and critical approach is given special emphasis. The roots of the series go back to the Annales School and its focus on the dynamic, dialectic movement between past and present (Annales d’histoire économique et sociale, founded by Lucien Febre and Marc Bloch in 1929). Inspired also by Fernand Braudel the series has sought to widen the contexts of literature, including literary cultures and religious and sociological determinants in national and transnational contexts. Finally, the series has an explicitly critical aim. It questions and explores any naturalized concept of literary historiography itself, including the concept of nation, period, genre, etc. As was stated by the first general editors of the series, Mario Valdés and Linda Hutcheon, the series has been inspired also by poststructuralism, feminism and postcolonialism, and since then has only expanded its critical agenda, which can also be seen in the present volume on Iberian literature. This second volume completes A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula, a project that began more than ten years ago and has involved more than one hundred researchers. As mentioned in the introduction to volume one, this literary history is part of a series focused on regional determinants, launched in 1986 by the Coordinating Committee for Comparative Literary Histories in European Languages (CHLEL) under the auspices of ICLA (International Comparative Literature Association). The aim of this particular series is to present, discuss and contextualize various kinds of literature from a selected region and to question traditional spatiotemporal frames for understanding that literature. To choose the region as a frame for literary history is thus in itself an interpretational strategy that sets a new agenda and it is a choice that begs or invites new comparative methods. Where traditional comparatism had the nation state as a ‘‘natural’’ context for the studied literature, obviously, regional literary histories take their point of departure in the ‘‘region’’ but it is not an easy task to understand what a region is and how it can delimited. The Iberian Peninsula seems perhaps like a natural geographical region, delimited by water on three sides and mountains on the fourth but the Peninsula has a complex history of shifting political borders, of unity and conflict between its two nations (Portugal and Spain), of enormous waves of immigration doi 10.1075/chlel.29.001pre © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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and influence of ‘‘other’’ cultures like the Arabic culture, the Jewish culture and the culture of the Romas in the South, the Celtic in the north-west, and the Romans in the north-east. It is a history of unity and conflict between the nation state of Spain and different regions like the Basque Country, Catalonia, and Galicia. These last three regions are given special attention as independent regions within this literary history, albeit with strong and critical relations to the national context. To choose the region as starting point for understanding the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula is a daring choice with many consequences. It creates new connections between literatures that are often seen apart, suggesting a community even when that community is based upon critical division. It is a difficult balance between acknowledging unity and diversity; the choice also opens a continuing debate about the geographical and cultural center of the literary history, because even though Castile and Madrid obviously is seen as one important center, Castile is also approached as just ‘one region more’. In this literary history unity is thus questioned from within, but the relations to the world outside also play a huge role. The volume traces numerous relations and paths of cultural exchange that traverse the Iberian Peninsula and former colonies, Lusophone and Hispanic-American communities and other parts of the world. Literatures in different languages (Portuguese, Spanish, Hebrew, Arabic, Galician, Catalan, Basque) are discussed, minority cultures, for instance like the Gypsies and the Jews, but also youth cultures, women’s cultures and LGBT, major and minor genres (the novel, the sonnet, the bufo, the novel of chivalry and of adultery, the diary, the pastoral, the essay, the comic strip, childrens’ literature, hip hop and bestsellers) are investigated and media and mediation are discussed in the most unusual ways. Not only is there a focus on cinema, TV and radio, but also on the anthology, para-textuality, translation as a transformative medium, institutions like the school and censorship as mediators of literature — a proliferation of new perspectives that emphasize the study of dynamic developments and relationality as part and parcel of comparative methodology. As all the literary histories, co-ordinated by the CHLEL, this literary history develops its own methodology, which in its own words is ‘geotechnical’ or ‘geopolitical’. All through the volume there is an intense discussion about the spatial and temporal framings of the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula. Whereas earlier volumes have worked with the concept of node, a concept coined by Marcel Cornis-Pope and John Neubauer (in the History of the literary cultures of EastCentral Europe. Junctures and disjunctures in the 19th and 20th centuries), this literary history has developed the concept of ‘‘borehole.’’ The node focuses on centrifugal points of interest; the concept of borehole seems to liken the literary historian to a deconstructive engineer that digs out channels between connected literatures rather than uniting them in centers of gravity. The intro calls the approaches ‘penetrations’ into different literary historical fields. The volume is divided into four sections, 1. Images, 2. Genres, 3. Forms of mediation and 4. Cultural studies and literary repertoires. All of these are horizontal boreholes that make it possible to make critical excursions through the literary history, not necessarily respecting normal categories of historiography (like periods) and not aiming for coverage. The four sections are followed by an Epilogue that is not just a summing up but actually gives voice to eight literary historians who perform a critical reading of both volumes of this Iberian literary history from different perspectives .The first five contributions reflect on this literary history from regional perspectives (Basque, Catalan, Galician, Portuguese, Spanish), the three last ones discuss

Presidential Preface to Vol. 2 of A Comparative History of Literatures in the Iberian Peninsula xiii comparative history and comparative literary history. It says something about the critical ambition of this book that it turns the critical telescope towards itself, and it gives the book a hugely dialogical and open-ended character. This literary history thus presents a huge number of new critical interpretations of multiple literatures in the Iberian Peninsula, it opens up a network of interrelations between the regions inside and outside of the Peninsula and it demonstrates new comparative approaches to spatial literary history.

Introduction César Domínguez, Anxo Abuín González and Ellen Sapega 

To the memory of Claudio Guillén and John Neubauer

Six years after the publication of Volume 1 of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula, this second and last volume brings this project to an end under the leadership of a new editorial team, whose members have either assumed different responsibilities (César Domínguez and Anxo Abuín González) or incorporated to the project (Ellen Sapega). The core sections of Volume 2 remain identical to the outline announced in the Introduction to Volume 1, namely, “Images” (Section 1), “Genres” (Section 2), “Forms of mediation” (Section 3), and “Cultural studies and literary repertoires” (Section 4). Specific chapters within each of these sections, however, have experienced substantial changes. On occasions, these changes are due to the fact that some contributions did not meet the standards. This is not, of course, an assessment on the intrinsic quality of said contributions, but results from the issue of adjustment to the aims of the whole project as elaborated in the internal documents provided to contributors. In one of these internal documents it was stated that A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula aims to “analyze some cases — interliterary and intercultural oriented — that shed light on key issues of comparative literature on the understanding that these cases are exemplary illustrations but do not exhaust the field of research.” The limited number of scholars who specialize in comparing literatures within the Iberian Peninsula — in contrast to comparatists who work with an Iberian literature and literatures in non-Iberian languages — has posed the most serious challenge to the whole enterprise. Other times, the inclusion of new chapters obeys to certain lacunae detected by the editorial team in relation to their own conception of the project. Moreover, the editorial team of Volume 2 has devised a concluding section under the title of “Epilogue.” In accordance with the geographical rationale of this project, we have figuratively thought of our method as geotechnical investigation, meaning that we have obtained ten geoliterary samples through the combination of three vertical and seven horizontal boreholes. Volume 1 (2010) includes two of these vertical boreholes. The first one — “Discourses on Iberian literary history,” by Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza and César Domínguez, which opens the volume, provides the diachronical construction of literary history in the Iberian Peninsula, both outwards (Cabo Aseguinolaza’s “European horizon”) and inwards (Domínguez’s geoliterary locations as strained between Lebensraum and espace vécu). The second one, which closes the volume, is an attempt to build temporal frames for the Iberian interliterary network. Notice that, within the CHLEL regional subseries, ours is the most ambitious experiment in terms of the temporal span so far. This necessarily translates into a higher degree of selection. The coordinator of Section 5, Fernando Gómez Redondo, chose seven such temporal frames, which represent the first attempt at proposing an “interperiodology”: 1252–84, 1474–1504, 1580, 1737–93, the nineteenth century, 1900–50, and 1975–82. As for the horizontal boreholes, Volume 1 includes three of them. The first one (Section 2, “The Iberian Peninsula as a literary space”) follows naturally from the external and internal metageographical codes in literary history explored in Section 1. Section 2, therefore, explores the doi 10.1075/chlel.29.002int © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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continuity of, but also challenges such codes through isolationist and reintegrationist projections (Iberianism, Lusism/Lusofonia and travel writing), cultural centers and enclaves. The two other horizontal boreholes deal with literary languages (Section 3, “Multilingualism and literature in the Iberian Peninsula) and oral literature (Section 4, “Dimensions of orality”). The present volume focuses on four further horizontal boreholes. The first one, “Images,” shows that the Iberian Peninsula is a multipolar environment in which the Spanish-Castilian hegemon is deconstructed by the Others, which, at the same time, generate Others of their own. The second horizontal borehole is provided by genres, which show the rich circulation of literary forms within the Iberian Peninsula, as well as their successive changes through re-appropriations and re-definitions, not to mention those literary areas that remain alien to specific genres. The third horizontal borehole represents a step further in rewriting, for it focuses on several manifestations of what Lubomír Doležel termed as “transduction,” from translation proper to censorship. The fourth horizontal borehole, in turn, has a dual orientation, for it deals simultaneously with a discipline — cultural studies — and its object of research — popular culture — that traditionally lacks of both a comparative method and an Iberian horizon. Volume 2 is brought to an end with the third vertical borehole, a sampling that this time is not applied to the object of study — literatures in the Iberian Peninsula — but to the narrative construction itself — this comparative history — in a typical exercise of what Mario J. Valdés has described as the self-awareness of comparative literary history. Though, of course, these ten penetrations into the literary Iberian Peninsula belong to different categories, they nonetheless make possible to obtain complementary, but also contradictory, pictures whose reading do not exhaust within the limits of each one, but demand from the reader to practice her own boreholes forwards and backwards.

Contents of Volume 2 Section 1 “Images,” under the supervision of Dorothy Odartey-Wellington, comprises ten chapters along with an Introduction by the section coordinator. Two main imagological axes can be observed in this section. On the one hand, the prototypical Others in opposition to which cultures in Iberia have defined themselves — Gypsies, a Black composite (alternatively Ethiopian, Indian or Black), Jews, migrants, and Europeans. On the other hand, the complex interplay of regional identities within the Peninsula has been epitomized by the Basque Country, Catalonia, Galicia, Madrid, and Portugal. The number of genres through which these images are communicated range from Golden Age drama, poetry and royal memoriales to Portuguese young adult literature, foundational Galician nationalist literature, and Catalan literature from the Renaixença, to 1860–1960 “Madrilenian literature.” Maria Fernanda de Abreu coordinates Section 2 on “Genres.” Preceded by an Introduction by the coordinator, this section comprises twelve chapters, each devoted to a specific genre — medieval poetry, pastoral romance, books of chivalry, sonnets, picaresque fiction, religious texts, historical novels, national drama, novels of adultery, diary writing, children literature, and essays. Once again, the aim is neither exhaustiveness, nor to provide a history of genres in the Iberian Peninsula, but a rich selection that pinpoints the interliterary network of Iberia and its connections to the wider world, from picaresque novels located in Castile, Seville, and the Americas,

Introduction3 to (self-)exclusions (the case of Catalan literature with regards to the novel of adultery), to the essay as the genre that turns into the spokesperson of the Iberian distance with relation to the rest of Europe. Section 3, titled “Forms of mediation,” is devoted to the issue of mediation under the supervision of Cesc Esteve and María José Vega. The section coordinators understand “mediation” as a way of referring to all the textual and institutional instruments that bring about the literary and interlinguistic relationships, the reception and recovery, as of the present, of classical literatures, and the assimilation of other modern literatures. After an introductory chapter in which Esteve and Vega discuss the comparatist implications of the concept, ten chapters follow. They address different mediating phenomena across times and regions, such as rewriting, translation, paratextual elements, canon formation, censorship, education systems, anthologies, and publishing houses. Finally, Section 4 “Cultural studies and literary repertoires,” under the supervision of Anxo Abuín González, discusses different cases at the interface of the popular and the literary in different media, from the popular novel during the last third of the nineteenth century and popular spectacles from that period to 1931, best-sellers, contemporary music and literature, graphic novels, cinema and literature, the role of television, radio-literary genres, postdigital fiction, and LGBTQ studies. These chapters are preceded by an Introduction by the section coordinator in which the situation of cultural studies is surveyed. To these four sections the Epilogue follows. This section has neither a coordinator of its own, nor an introductory section, for the aim was that specialists in literatures in the Iberian Peninsula, as well as in the (sub)disciplines of comparative history and comparative literary history, search for links between Volumes 1 and 2 from the point of view of general contributions to the field of Iberian comparative studies and assess the entire project now that reaches completion. The reader will not find, however, a complete list of the project’s contributions. On the one hand, it is a difficult aim when it comes to a collective work that gathers contributions by almost one hundred scholars. On the other hand, these concluding remarks are made from very specific disciplinary locations — namely, Basque literature, Catalan literature, Galician literature, Portuguese literature, Spanish literature, comparative history, and comparative literary history — that the whole project supersedes in its investigation of interliterary and intercultural networks across the Iberian Peninsula and beyond.

Note on documentation and translation Volume 2 follows the same guidelines on documentation and translation as the ones applied in Volume 1. We follow The Chicago manual of style and do not use footnotes, except to provide the original version of the literary quotes that have been included in English translation in the body of the essays. The original versions of critical or essayistic citations are not supplied; they appear only in the English translations. However, concepts relevant to the line of argumentation are provided in the original language, followed by the English translation in parenthesis. The names of places (towns, cities, public and private organisms) and people (kings, rulers, etc.) have been regulated in accordance with the uses of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Due to the different composition of the editorial teams in each volume, the recommended citations are:

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Cabo Aseguinolaza, Fernando, Anxo Abuín González and César Domínguez, eds. 2010. A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula. Vol. 1. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Domínguez, César, Anxo Abuín González and Ellen Sapega, eds. 2016. A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula. Vol. 2. Amsterdam: John Benjamins.

Acknowledgements The difficulties — both intellectual and technical — of a project of these characteristics, in which almost one hundred scholars have participated, are obvious. The role played by section coordinators has been of key importance. Though they have built their sections upon the guidelines provided by the editorial team and recruited the best specialists in the field, they have also generously accepted the suggestions of the editorial team as for both specific lacunae that needed to be addressed and new contributors. Furthermore, contributors have been very receptive in accepting both the coordinators’ and the editorial team’s recommendations and extremely patient in relation to a project that, since its first inception, has taken longer than initially anticipated. The fact that many contributions have not been received in English as requested has inevitably led to considerable delay, which makes the patience of other contributors all the more praisable. Special mention deserves Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza, who took part in the first stages of this volume. We gratefully acknowledge the funding for this project provided by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation (Project code: FFI2010-16165), the Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitivity (Project code: FFI 2012-35296; and, through the Research Group 1371 in Literary Theory and Comparative Literature, the Program GRC2014/026), the European Commission through the Jean Monnet Chair “The Culture of European Integration” (Nº 528689), and the Coordinating Committee for Comparative Literary History in European Languages. In the latter case, however important the financial support is, the former presidents, Margaret Higonnet and Marcel Cornis-Pope, the current president, Karen-Margrethe Lindskov Simonsen, and each of its members, as well as the internal and external readers, deserve special mention for their constant support and valuable intellectual monitoring. This four-layered structure of peer-review — section coordinators, editorial team, members of the Coordinating Committee, and internal and external readers — has resulted in ongoing fruitful discussions and, hopefully, in the best result that may be offered to readers. We also would like to express our gratitude to the translators and linguistic copy-editors, particularly Marla Arbach, Manus O’Dwyer, and Frances Laskey. No previous attempt of a comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula has been made until now. The fact that this project has been conceived in Santiago de Compostela — a “marginocentric city” in Marcel Cornis-Pope and John Neubauer’s terms — has obvious implications. This is only, therefore, just a first step that — we hope — will provide scholars with a solid basis to both deepen and take in exciting new directions.

Section I. Images Coordinator: Dorothy Odartey-Wellington

Inter(-in)ventions: Images of national identity in the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula Dorothy Odartey-Wellington The study of literature has traditionally been organized around national lines. For decades, university departments have trained scholars in Spanish literature, Portuguese literature, German literature, and so on. When it comes to non-Western literatures, the national denomination is less precise and groupings are made along continental lines; hence we speak broadly of African literatures, postcolonial literatures, and similar generalized categories. To an extent, the unicultural vision of literature has always sat comfortably with the traditional notion of “national character.” Indeed, the latter has been held responsible for the nature of the literature of a region in much the same way as landscape used to be viewed as the marker of literary national identity. Continental or national classifications encapsulate literary expressions into units which seem to exclude any cross-cultural or intercultural activities and influences in their creation. “World literatures,” the more recent terminology which has the potential to provide the context for — and tease out the intercultural elements in — literature, generally serves merely to denote any writing that is not canonically Western. This section, which is dedicated to the study of stereotypes of national identity, serves as a means of dismantling the iron-clad national or continental classifications which, all too often, ignore the trans-cultural elements that go into the creative process. In this instance, where the literary production of the Iberian Peninsula is concerned, this collection of articles approaches aspects of the literature from the region through an examination of the literary representations of one or more regional, national, or ethnic groups. While each essay may focus generally on an Iberian national/ethnic/regional identity, the comparative approach adopted by the authors reflects the cultural and ethnic diversity of the region and its intercultural relationships. When William Chew wrote of the relevance of image studies in “language and intercultural communication” (2006, 186), his focus, quite appropriately, was on its potential to “help mitigate — if not prevent outright — any of the intractable contemporary regional intercultural conflicts, many of which are fuelled by a persistent lack of inter-cultural communication and a lack of insight into the origins and function of stereotypes” (186). Indeed, the related capacity of image studies to create dialogue across and within national lines should not be ignored. In addition to its ability to reveal the constructivist and self-serving nature of some accepted notions of national character, imagology has the benefit of serving as the catalyst for considering the fundamental, but often ignored, intercultural nature of literature.

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That national, regional, or continental borders, imagined or objectively perceived, do exist is not in contention here. After all, these essays have been compiled within the geographical boundary of the Iberian Peninsula. Rather, what is key here is a hyper-awareness of the existence of those borders, accompanied by diligent deciphering of their construction in the literatures of a region built on differences. This is all the more pertinent with regard to the cultures of the Iberian Peninsula where geographical, historical, and socio-political linkages in the region, in addition to the recent outcomes of migratory activity, make a cross-cultural approach to literary study unavoidable. Each of the chapters in the section is triggered by considerations of cultural differences and their creative manifestations and uses. However, they also make it clear that the language or grammar of difference, which is the source of national stereotypes and self-images of national identity, points to intercultural discourse, rather than legitimize alienation and disconnection among and within the literatures in the region. These studies focus on groups that are either culturally, racially, or ethnically identifiable in the Iberian Peninsula in a given period or over time and examine the factors that underlie their representation in literature. In addition, they further question such representations in order to reveal intercultural dialogue or tensions that reflect back on the anxieties around them. In this regard, the focus here on national identities makes for an inquiry into intercultural impulses within the literature of the region. The very notion of the identity of a “national literature” is questioned by Antón Figueroa and Elias J. Torres Feijó in their examination of the concept of Galician literature, which they describe as unstable given its variability according to its location in history. Figueroa and Torres Feijó locate the upsurge in the claim to a separate Galician identity in nineteenth-century European Romanticism, as is the case with other regional identities in the Iberian Peninsula. Additionally, its “fiction,” they explain, is similarly cloaked in a history of origins which ties a group of people to certain ethnic roots and all their linguistic, cultural, and archaeological implications. The process thus justifies, or appears to rationalize, the group’s differentiation from the supposedly dominant entity with which it does not share those origins: Castile in this case. Their contribution here follows up on their previous discussion, in a joint publication with J. Manuel Barbeito and Jorge Sacido, of the ongoing debate around the role of literature in what they call the “‘invention’ of the identity of peoples and nations” (Barbeito et al. 2008, 7). In their previous work, as well as in the present essay, they draw attention to the interrelated variables — history, ideology, politics — that drive literary interventions in identity formation. In his examination of Catalan literature from the Renaixença (Renaissance) and two more recent historical novels, Stewart King argues that a Catalonian identity is only made possible through a simultaneous construction of images of Spain. His concluding sentence, “Catalonia may not be Spain, but it needs Spain — as its cultural other — in order to exist,” appropriately sums up a fundamental outcome of the interaction of diverse cultures. It also underscores the significance of image studies in the context of our postcolonial, postmodern, cosmopolitan, and global view of the world; a world in which any homogenous and unidimensional perspective of self and other becomes implausible. Any cross-cultural interaction, whether by means of colonization, imperialism, economic transaction, or geographical proximity, sets the stage for intercultural versions of self and other. In the case of King’s reading of Catalan self-image in Catalan literature, the former is seen to be articulated from a place of alienation, and crafted visa-vis a “Castilianized image” of Spain, for historical reasons which saw Catalonian sovereignty

Images of national identity in the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula7 threatened by Castilian hegemony. On the basis of King’s essay, and in light of the overarching sentiment in the essays collected here, both self and other are admittedly what I would call “inter(-in)ventions”; that is, reciprocal inventions of self through other, in spite of the general tacit acceptance of the integrity of the components involved in the process. The notion of intercultural identities resonates in Araceli Cañada Ortega’s examination of the concrete historical contexts, personalities and discourses that have contributed to the entrenchment of stereotypes of Romany people (generally referred to in the English-speaking world as Gypsies) in the Spanish popular imagination. In Cañadas Ortega’s analysis, Romany people’s marginalization, through what she describes as the negation of their identity, their dehumanization and their representation as social threats, obscures evidence of “mutual influence” and “blending” between their culture and Spanish culture. Thus, whereas historical prejudices have sought to set Romany people apart on account of their supposedly arcane language, for example, Cañadas Ortega’s intercultural lens reveals linguistic cross-fertilization leading not only to mutual borrowing between the two cultures, but also to bilingualism. The case for ongoing cross-cultural understanding cannot be overstated when one considers, as does Cañadas Ortega, the merging of clichés of “Gypsyness” and folkoric stereotypes of “Spanishness.” This in itself is a theme that has been exploited and challenged in equal measure but never sufficiently assessed in its integrative dimension. Santiago Fernández Mosquera’s contribution here continues the discussion on racial stereotypes by focusing on the image of blacks in Spanish Golden Age theatre. He asks if skin color mattered, and how, to Spanish sixteenth-century listeners and readers in relation to that period’s renditions of Heliodorus of Emesa’s Aethiopica. He explores the representations of black characters as “fabrications.” Firstly, they were fabricated in the sense that they were generally decontexualized, divorced from their actual origins, and played by painted white actors. Secondly, their cliché racial and linguistic difference was exploited for comedic effect. Even where authors went against the grain of dramatic convention to give black characters central roles, they invented exotic nobles based on inaccurate information on the origins of the former. These racialized fabrications in sixteenth and seventeenth-century theatre no doubt offer a rich corpus for the study of the invention of racialized others. Spain’s cultural inventions of “others” in the sixteenth and seventeenth century is also the focus of Irene Bertuzzi’s contribution to the discussions in this section. In this instance however, representations of cultural distance are not racialized but rather nationalized. This being a case, according to Bertuzzi, of alterity based on political and cultural relationships between an Empire and its perceptions of threats from emerging nation states in its territorial neighborhood. Bertuzzi finds in the satires of Francisco de Quevedo, a writer whose ideologies were aligned with those of the imperialist monarchy, rich fodder for images of other Europeans. Quevedo’s imaginings of a powerful, wealthy and Catholic Spanish Empire that had to be wary of morally corrupt foreigners, those that undermined its economic integrity, and even foreign tradesmen who sought to take advantage of the empire’s superior wealth, may resonate with contemporary studies of representations emerging from the relational tensions between supranational entities and newer “others.” A counterintuitive approach to identity invention is evident in Annabel Martín’s reading of works by three contemporary Basque authors: Julia Otxoa, Bernardo Atxaga, and Luisa Etxenike. Writing in response to the “nationalist imaginary,” which is built on and results in violence, these

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writers, according to Martín, break barriers and build bridges to belonging through literature. Identity is turned on its head in her essay. Where conventionally identity, albeit invented, affirmed the familiar, we are confronted here with an alternative that is the very opposite of what identity purports to be. Describing Otxoa’s writing as “an aesthetics of collision against the opaqueness of linear language,” Martín underscores the rejection, by these authors, of the familiar for the unknown through the recognition of the “foreignness” in the self. In this sense, an awareness of the existence of the other cannot leave the self intact. In the case of Bernardo Atxaga, Martín shows that regional identity is cut free from its moorings to the past. In Atxaga’s literary world, this process can be seen to be reflected in the corpus of readings suggested by a writer in Martín’s quotation from Obabakoak (People/things from Obaba, 1989). In these readings, the barriers between national literatures have been broken down to create a universal space where “[t]he world is everywhere.” In the work of Luisa Etxenike, Martín suggests that the issue of identity is not based on the usual juxtaposition of “I” and “you,” “self ” versus “other,” but rather on the awareness of the “foreignness” of the “I.” Within the context of the history of ETA terrorism and the victims that it leaves in its wake, this particular process of perceiving identity is adroitly captured in the notion of reconciliation. In this instance Martín understands “reconciliation” in Etxenike’s work to involve the recognition of the other or the “foreigner” in oneself. From the vantage point of Sefarad — Jewish Spain — Dosinda García-Alvite describes the various renditions of Jewishness in Spanish literature as expressions of the “uncanny” in Freudian terms. Images of Jews in Spanish canonical literature, she argues, are uncanny in that they emerge from what is known, familiar, and even familial, and yet frightening and unfamiliar as a result of what she calls “a repressed alterity.” Clearly, what is unfamiliar and frightful (uncanny) is only so in relation to what is not so. The uncanny and its opposite, the “homely,” are thus components of the same entity, she argues. In this regard, the converso (convert), as García-Alvite aptly observes, is the uncanny figure par excellence for he/she embodies at once the familiar and the unfamiliar. She notes that following the expulsions and mass conversions post-1492, the conversos, as (new) Catholics and as the objects of suspicion of the old Christians, indeed became the embodiment of the Catholic (familiar) inscribed by what he/she feared. This notion is reminiscent of Henry Kamen’s observation of the telling phenomenon of the “invention” of Jews long after flesh-and-blood Jews had ceased to exist in Spain. Mythical Jews on whom to blame serious social or political problems were incarnated, for example, in the Dutch who at the time in question were in rebellion against the Spanish crown (2007, 18). Equally revealing of the ideological tendencies that drive notions of ethnic identity is the Columbusas-Jew phenomenon which grew out of the late nineteenth-century tendency to appropriate Jewish legacy to boost Spanish claims to contributions to European civilization (Kamen 2007, 40). García-Alvite’s chapter reiterates the idea that literary imaginings of Jewish heritage in the Iberian Peninsula are as varied as the perspectives, origins, affiliations, prejudices, and other such variables, of the sources from which they emanate. Depending on where the pendulum of ideology swung, therefore, the Jewish image reflected the rejection applied to what was feared in anti-Semitic periods following 1492, or the redemption of what was feared by making it familiar, as in the nineteenth-century appropriation of Jewish heritage for the benefit of Spanish “civilization” or in the twentieth- and twenty-first-century celebration of Spanish multiculturalism. In such instances, García-Alvite argues, Semitic representations are merely “archeological” or topical. Welcome alternatives to these, in her opinion, can be found in such contemporary novelists as Antonio Muñoz Molina and Leopoldo Azancot.

Images of national identity in the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula9 From the foregoing it is evident that “national” literatures are neither independent nor self-sufficient. This is confirmed in Francesca Blockeel’s overview of the evolution of Portuguese auto-images from the thirteenth century to the end of empire, with a focus on youth literature after the Revolution of 1974. At all material times, the Portuguese self-image is revealed to be a function of the depiction of other national identities. Blockeel examines Portuguese images in relation to Portugal’s neighbor on the Iberian Peninsula, its other European neighbors and, transcontinentally, in relation to its former colonies. The importance of children’s literature for the study of the construction of national images cannot be overstated. For Blockeel, it is a medium through which nationalism is powerfully manifested. In her approach to national images, however, she goes to the very heart of the workings of the process of image invention. She does this by revealing, through her reading of contemporary narratives, the ironic dismantling of homogenous national images and heroic values and the attempt at creating alternatives, sometimes with the same nationalistic tropes. These auto-images, conventional or otherwise, generate and are generated by hetero-images of “Goliath” Spain or “foreign” Europe. Blockeel finds, however, that characters from the former colonies are relatively absent in Portuguese youth literature. Unlike the previously-cited contributors, Enrique Fernández Rivera approaches the relationship between literature and identity formation from the angle of urban, rather than regional, literature. Madrilenian literature, he points out, is truly a compendium of literatures of the Iberian Peninsula, in that although the novels he discusses are set in Madrid, their authors did not necessarily originate from that city. Of the authors featured in his essay, only Mesonero Romanos was Madrilenian. Pío Baroja and Martín-Santos were Basque, Camilo José Cela was Galician, and Benito Pérez Galdós was from the Canary Islands. It is worth noting that, in addition to the varied regional origins of the authors as identified by Fernández Rivera, the novels selected for his study feature regional characters involved in what he calls the struggle for survival in the capital; an activity that is bound to create interaction with the city and its inhabitants and therefore provide a recipe for identity invention and problematizing. The notion that the cultural other is a requirement for the existence of the self, as explored by the previously-mentioned contributors, is echoed in Fernández Rivera’s portrayal of literary Madrid. Madrid, it seems, needs the regions in order to be. What Madrid is, or is not, comes to light in the presence of its regional characters. The origin of Madrid as capital, seemingly emerging out of a tabula rasa, as Fernández Rivera says, is itself an apt metaphor: it is symbolic of national identity as the result of a creative intervention process. Madrid as a capital city of activity and action needed the geographies and supposed ways of being that are different from its own to make it stand out for better or for worse. This is not unlike Spain as a whole: a European country in the twenty-first century, which needs its immigrant characters in order to create imagery of that European identity, as we see in the final essay of this section. In my essay, which concludes the section, I examine the function of national stereotypes in twenty-first-century Spanish fiction. As a literature increasingly marked by immigration, it is fertile ground for discussions of identity and alterity. My contribution therefore teases out constructions of Spanishness, in the context of notions of Europeaness, vis-à-vis new others represented by residents from elsewhere. Paradoxically, however, although the abundance of national and racial stereotypes in fictional narratives that feature immigrants is predicated upon a recognition of differences in a multicultural context, their usage, either by national writers or so-called immigrant writers in the various works examined here, chips away at, rather than reaffirms, existing certainties of exclusion and belonging.

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The above comparative approaches to some of the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula view literature not only as a space for invention, but also as a site of intervention, where the latter process implies intercommunication. Over and over again it is evident that identity and alterity go hand in hand. In other words, to use the language of imagologists, the tropes with which the “regardé” is fashioned reflect back on the “regardante;” the historical, sociological, or political prism through which the “spected” is refracted is revealing of the “spector” and his/her motivation. These essays therefore suggest the term “intercultural identity,” as an alternative to “national identity,” to describe the literary renditions of ongoing intercommunication and the cultural inventions and interventions that take place in the Iberian region.

Galician literature and the imaginary Functions and problems Antón Figueroa and Elias J. Torres Feijó When we attempt to describe some of what occurs in literary processes that are commonly called “minority” or “peripheral,” we are alluding to generally asymmetrical dynamics in which people attempt to establish a “common meaning” against another “common meaning” that has been established as the majority one. We thereby affirm the claim that in both cases we are dealing with historical processes of institutionalization that contradict the established “common meaning,” established precisely because of that quality. This tells us to distance ourselves somewhat from the commonplace clichés that we make as equally historical members of a social group: it serves no purpose to evaluate the reasons for one or the other, since their authentic value lies in their political, literary, and esthetic potentials. “The true birth of a nation is the moment where a handful of individuals declares that it exists and sets out to prove it,” with varying degrees of success, as Anne-Marie Thiesse says (1999, 11). In the case of Galicia, which does not differ much from many others, the different constructive processes of the condition of Galicians have, over time, determined a set of self-definitions and -images, some of which have become “self-stereotypes.” These, independently of any empirical verification, have been and are being used by groups to singularize, distinguish, or identify themselves both internally and externally and in a concurrent and conflictive process. The very concept of “Galician literature” has been unstable throughout time. As is the case in all social spaces, how a literature may be defined, irrespective of the systematic norms that delimit it and the particular characteristics that can be attributed to it as identifiers, depends on the capacity of different groups to impose their choices. These groups legitimize and project their definition of “national literature” — which necessarily implies, and this is the crucial point, the use of “national languages” — onto a previous fabrication and imposition of the elements that determine the “national being.” Thus, the goal is to articulate these systemic norms in coherence with what are considered the defining markers of the nation. The process, as a general rule, fueled by the combination of elements that the “inventor” groups consider defining of the “national being,” is articulated by and articulates the “memory of the nation.” In addition, these defining elements of the entity, the customs checkpoint of the dominant people, possibly achieve the “consensus” of the majority of the community. And this is so because consensus rests on the communal need to possess common instruments and elements of social recognition and practice. As is evident, the memory of the nation is constituted by an aggregate (variable over time) of socially legitimated defining elements of the entire community (Torres Feijó 2004, 432). These are the elements that will feed the Galician literary and cultural imaginary in a process that will see significant philological and historiographical activity on the part of their promoters, in search of the differential definition of the “Galician being.” This explains how this imaginary may have been substantially shaped by the results of this activity and how, at the same time, Galician nationalist literary and cultural production may equally have molded, configured, and situated them in its particular hierarchy of choices over time. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.02fig © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Certainly, one constant in the dynamics of the construction of national entities is the use of the historical argument: the justification of an uninterrupted, though hidden, trajectory, which we must dis-/un-cover and which stems from the “first settlers,” from forgotten ancestors that we must inventare and link to the present. Thus, it is logical, in these cases, for historiography to play an important role in the selection of these forbears, and it is not unusual for the narrative told by the national historian to approach the boundaries of a mythical tale. Broadly, these processes of the creation of modern nations, and the search for and the affirmation of specificity, some of which have succeeded, some of which have failed, and others which are still alive, began in Europe at the end of the eighteenth or the beginning of the nineteenth century. As the process advances and social beliefs are established, art already has at its disposal a culture from which to glean schemas of fiction which in turn, and in their own way, feed back into the real process of national proof. Art and politics appear closely linked in these dynamics: music, painting, architecture, literature, etc., contribute to the foundation and dissemination of social myths and beliefs. The movement to restore a Galician entity began around 1840, encouraged by the dissemination of Romantic national ideals in Spain, and also by the dissemination in Spain of the liberal model of the State which was close to federalism. It was also specifically helped by the reaction to the organization of the State in the provinces and the consequent official disappearance of the Kingdom of Galicia in 1833 (Beramendi & Núñez Seixas 1995, 17–18). The argumentation is mainly historicist at first, meaning that Galician nationalist historiography is at first closely linked to the differential or national claims of the period. It then evolves toward ethnicist suppositions, especially in the period before the Civil War, and is currently moving on to “a distant (and not unfrequently barely patriotic) view of the past” (Villares 2004, 16). Despite the fact that historiography, like science and art in general, especially as of the last quarter of the twentieth century, has gained greater autonomy in relation to the national political duty, the belief created by a select few and disseminated on a cultural level and the scientist’s ever-more-distant and demystifying gaze in the present do not prevent an ever-greater expansion of the function of the past. One of the most representative myths of the process we have just stated is that of the Celts as the privileged ancestors in the construction of Galician identity. The Celts were, according to Galician nationalist historiography, and supported by archeology and some toponymy, the inhabitants of the earliest settlements, a fact that is disputed today or at least qualified by historians. Despite that, Celtism as an ethnic explanation for the Galician people enjoyed a prominent position and, as of the second half of the nineteenth century, it was elevated to the status of distinguishing feature in relation to Castile, during the Rexurdimento (Renaissance). This created a referent of opposition to the Castile/Spain tandem, and situated this tandem as the principal cause of the professed ills of Galicia, of its plundering and of its colonization. In general, José Verea y Aguiar is recognized as the initiator of the definition of Galicians as a Celtic people. However, the great theorizer and disseminator of this idea was the historian and politician Manuel Murguía in his monumental Historia de Galicia (History of Galicia), which began to be published in 1865. In keeping with the historiographical tendencies of his time, the reasons set forth by Murguía to reinforce the specificity of Galicia are its geographical and linguistic characteristics and especially its racial ones: the Celtic race characterizes Galicia. Given that races have invariable characteristics, according to the theories made fashionable at the time by Count Gobineau, the declaration of the Galician people as entirely Celtic had the advantage of

Galician literature and the imaginary13 establishing a community from its origins up to the present. This position is developed in the 1920s by the Nós generation (Generation Us) which defines Galicia as a nation. The nation is linked to the idea of a people that possess a “soul” and are grounded in a “land.” People, soul, and land lead to another fundamental “place” of reasons for the nation: the rural space, whose folklore keeps the essences of the thought of the permanent soul of the people. Thus begins the collection of folkloric elements of oral, musical, ethnographical literature, etc., which constitutes a source of narratives of all types, which also take on this same argumentative function. These are the objectives that Rosalía de Castro expresses in the book of poems Cantares Gallegos (Galician songs, 1863), which was quickly canonized as a foundational Galician nationalist text: But no one possesses less than I the great qualities that are necessary to carry out such difficult work, although no one either is motivated by a better desire to sing the beauties of our land in that sweet and affectionate dialect, which those who know not how it surpasses other languages in sweetness and harmony would call barbarous. Hence, though I found myself lacking strength, and having learned in no other school than that of our own villagers, guided only by those songs, those affectionate words and those never-forgotten expressions that so softly resonate in my ears from the cradle, and that were collected by my heart as my own heritage, I dared to write these songs, toiling to demonstrate how some of our poetic customs still maintain a certain patriarchal and primitive freshness, and how our sweet and sonorous dialogue is so appropriate to be the first for any kind of versification. (R. de Castro 1863, viii)

The differences between cultures can be explained by the fact that they belong to peoples who have different souls. Thus, Otero Pedrayo maintains the idea (already highlighted by Murguía) of two different souls in Europe: on one hand, the Mediterranean one, that of the “felibres” (Provençal poets), classical and believing in destiny, and, on the other, the Atlantic soul, that of the bards, romantic, Celtic, believing in saudade and in free will. “I cannot comprehend a Protestant Celt,” Otero Pedrayo declares (1934, 127). Although this essentialism would eventually disappear from the theoretical offerings, the Celtic narrative kept growing and gaining in popularity due to Murguía’s arguments and due to being used by authors since Eduardo Pondal (1835–1917), the first literary craftsman to integrate myths, landscapes, and characters from the identitary imaginary and the author of the lyrics to the Galician national anthem that defines Galicia as Nazón de Breogán (Breogán’s nation), a Celtic god, to present-day authors. From the beginning, this imaginary reinforced itself with religious characteristics, like a particular adaptation of Christianity, with elements taken from the popular devotional tradition (which can be found in the cited collection of poems by Rosalía de Castro), to which was added a pantheism whose origin was also attributed to Celtism or to its mixing with Christianity and which later, in the Nationalist period of the pre-Civil War era, would be linked to Priscillian, the first Galician “martyr.” The Celtic imaginary was complemented by the consideration of Galicia as a sort of ancient green paradise, an ancient nation that must be recovered and that was likened to its other Celtic sister nations, especially Ireland (which, in that period, was experiencing important national liberation movements), the “green Erin,” founded by Ith, son of Breogán. These associations would lead the traditionalist leader of the period, Alfredo Brañas, to coin the phrase “Érguete e anda como en Irlanda, como en Irlanda” (Rise up and go like in Ireland, like in Ireland), a politico-religious synthesis which subsequently enjoyed extraordinary success.

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The Celtic-Irish world appears in literary form and is linked from the beginning to Arthurian mythology. It is not surprising that perhaps the most widely-used scholarly mythological source in Galician literature is the Materia de Bretaña (Matter of Britain). The Arthurian cycle offers themes to the most emblematic writers of the twentieth century: Ramón Cabanillas’s Na Noite Estrelecida (The starry night, 1926), Álvaro Cunqueiro’s Merlín e familia (Merlin and family, 1956), Xosé Luís Méndez Ferrín’s Percival e outras historias (Percival and other stories, 1958) and Amor de Artur (Arthur’s love, 1982), and Darío Xohán Cabana’s Galván en Saor (Gawain in Saor, 1989), to name but a few. Celtism became enormously popular: symptomatic of this is the fact that one of the main present-day football teams is called Celta de Vigo (founded in 1923; the decade of the 1920s is the decade of the xeración Nós). Similarly the main basketball team is called Breogán and the most important chemical company Zeltia. But the greatest dissemination and prestige of the myth doubtlessly occurred through Galicia’s entry into the world of so-called Celtic music, from the 1970s, with Emilio Cao and his Celtic harp, to Milladoiro, the most popular group in Galicia, or Carlos Núñez, the most famous Galician musician in the world. It is perhaps through music that the enormous power of this myth to identify and connect Galician culture is revealed. This is something that the members of the Nós generation observed and experienced: the razón celta (Celtic cause) was a valid one for inserting Galicia into the Atlantic world and, through that, making it exist. Another of the historical “reasons” used and mythified to support the persistence through time of the Galician entity was the Suebic Kingdom of Galicia. Its “objective” historical basis is more documented and less contested than the Celtic argument. The Suebi, a Northern Germanic tribe, came to Roman Gallaecia at the beginning of the fifth century, where they founded, in 411, a kingdom with its capital in Braga, recognized by the emperor Honorius. The kingdom remained independent until it was incorporated into the Visigothic kingdom in 585. Augusto González Besada, author of the first history of Galician literature, wrote in the captatio benevolentiae of its prologue that the facts that he contributed “could one day be taken by some prescient artist and used to raise, with his help, a gigantic mausoleum to the Troubadours of ancient Suebia” (1887, x). It should be considered that romantic Galician historiography, like the Portuguese, tended to situate the origins of the nation as a political structure in the high Middle Ages, before the arrival of the Arabs (for the importance of Portuguese historiography and philology to the Galician nationalist movement of the nineteenth century, see Torres Feijó 1999). “Suebia” turned out to be one of the names of Galicia, although the Suebian narrative had much smaller sociocultural and literary repercussions than Celtic mythology. We believe this is because of its lesser ability to relate Galicia to the outside world and to contribute to its internal and external recognition. Among the myths introduced by historiography and cultivated politically, as Carlos Barros (1994) notes, we will also mention the revolt of the Irmandiños (1467–69) and the figure of Marshal Pardo de Cela, assassinated (1483) by order of Ferdinand and Isabella, themselves emblematized as symbols of Castilian/Spanish uniformism. The Irmandiños and Pardo de Cela became representatives and defenders of Galician identity against centralism, thus greatly simplifying a number of very complex events in the turbulent history of the Peninsula in the fifteenth century. Literature contributed in its own way to the circulation of these myths, within a much broader context of valuing the medieval period, with two works (both written in 1926) that are still present today: Armando Cotarelo’s Hostia, on the topic of the Priscillian “martyr,” and Antón

Galician literature and the imaginary15 Villar Ponte and Ramón Cabanillas’s O Mariscal (The marshal), on the figure of Pardo de Cela. Another mythified medieval figure is Don García, who ruled in Galicia between 1065 and 1070, and whose kingdom was snatched from him by his brother Alfonso VI, who kept him imprisoned until his death in León in 1090. The romantic postulates that initiated the circulation of this imaginary function of the past, and the historico-philological discoveries that revealed the “international” Galician-Portuguese literature and supplied a veritable cultural Golden Age in the “nation’s” past coincide (especially at the beginning of the process) in the importance given to the medieval period in the collective imaginary. This is one of the ways in which the Portuguese referent, another of the fundamental components of the Galician national imaginary, begins to appear. The work of Pondal (especially Queixumes dos Pinos — Lamentations of the pines, 1886) to which we alluded earlier is precisely the synthesis of the Celtic construct and another construct of a different genealogy, but equally profitable to the configuration of Galician identity: the linguistic, cultural, and spiritual link with Portugal, which, in turn, was integrated into Celtism — Gallaecia, with its capital in Braga, let us recall, turned out to be a people divided by the ups and downs of history. To a great extent, we can confirm that the foundations of the Galician nationalist imaginary and its transposition and reelaboration in literary output are firmly laid down by the nineteenth century. Perhaps the main theoretical text that unites them in a clear way is the speech given by Manuel Murguía on the occasion of the poetry festival that the Galician nationalists (selfdesignated “regionalists” at the time) held in Tui in 1891. In it, Murguía claimed that the time for complaints and recalling past disasters was over, and that the time for “demands” had arrived. The first item to be revindicated was language, and in it, all the major elements of the cultural imaginary: Our language! Which our parents spoke and which we are losing, which people from the country speak and which we can barely understand; the language in which kings and troubadours sang; and which, oldest child of the Galician homeland, we conserved it, and which should be conserved for us as a gift from Providence; which we still have on our lips, the eternal sweetness and accents that go straight to the heart; which now you hear as though it were a religious hymn; the beautiful, the noble language that on the other side of this river [the Grand Theatre of Tui in which the festival took place is right next to the Miño River], is the official language that serves more than twenty million people and has a literature represented by the glorious names of Camoens e Vieira, of Garret and Herculano; Galician, in short, which gives us the right to total possession of the land in which we were born, which tells us that since we are a distinct people, we must be one; which gives us the future that we make, and makes us certain that we must be fertile for the good of us all. In it, as in a sacred vessel in which all perfumes are placed, are the primary elements of our nationality, denied again and worse — ridiculed. Its sweetness is from the Celts as well as the largest part of its vocabulary; not the Roman, from the Suebian come its inflections, from our heart the talkative accent, and the softness, and the sentiments of the Celtic race. Somewhat feminine, to be sure, because they cool in the heroic valour of their sons. A distinct language — to use the political aphorism — shows a distinct nationality. Let us say it as well, with more certainty than ever, and let us speak it, so that this language in consonance with our spirit may be forever, and made like no other, for the expression of a literature so opposed to the Castilian temperament as is this one of ours. (quoted in Risco 1976, 78–79)

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And, after outlining the affinities that he judges fundamental between Galicia and Portugal, Murguía concludes: Thus, ladies and gentlemen, we can truly say that never, never, never can we repay our Portuguese brothers for having conserved these and other memories, and above all for having made our Galician a national language. More fortunate than the Provenzal, locked in its own region, it will not die. On the other side of the ocean where some please, wrongly, in my opinion, to place the cradle of nations of the future, the language we speak will always be heard, which we are forgetting and which will again have the life it deserves if we are conscious of the duties that we take upon ourselves. In Asia, in Africa, even in Oceania it will be spoken alongside those of the European, dominant world. God who has so punished us, grant us this glory. (quoted in Risco 1976, 79–80)

This reintegrationism would see in the 1920s the scholarly development of a presumably common, exclusively Galician-Portuguese, feeling: saudade, or saudosismo. This particular sentiment of nostalgia, which in Galicia and Portugal is also known, respectively, as morriña and senhardade (and which as early as in Rosalía’s work, would often be applied to immigrants), is one of the most important fabrications of the Portuguese cultural sphere, which from the sixteenth century carried important political (Sebastianism) and idiosyncratic connotations. The poetic and theorizing work on Saudosismo by Teixeira de Pascoaes, who was an admirer of Rosalía and who was considered a mestre by the Galician nationalists of the period, would be incorporated as an ideological corpus into the imaginary of the Galician-Portuguese brotherhood. That was also the case with Vicente Risco’s Teoría do nacionalismo galego (Theory of Galician nationalism, 1920), and, in the 1950s, with the work of Ramón Piñeiro, leader of cultural Galician nationalism of the period. This support of the spiritual brotherhood would have even greater echoes in the essentialist character of the dominant worldview in the Galician cultural sphere. Through these avenues, Portugal becomes a referent for reintegration, continually affirmed by historians like Benito Vicetto and González Besada, but very particularly by the liberal regionalism whose fundamental leader is Murguía. This line would be continued by the Irmandades da Fala (Brotherhoods of language) and by leaders such as Risco and Alfonso Castelao in their different articulations of Galician nationalism. This Galician-Portuguese brotherhood has been reaffirmed since the late nineteenth century with the discovery of the medieval Galician-Portuguese cancioneros (songbooks) and with myths like that of Inés de Castro or the Conde Andeiro, and has served to cement the difference from Castile/Spain. The dominant nationalist discourse argued from the beginning for the linguistic identification of Galician with Portuguese and for rapprochement to the Portuguese normative model, but in practice things were different. With the Galician social space isolated from Portugal, the social movers, educated in Spanish and without any philological auctoritas, mainly adopted, for the configuration of the written language, with different modulations with respect to the Portuguese model, a spelling that was close to the Spanish, and formulas from popular speech that were not always free from Castilianisms. The degree of Castilianization or the more or less genuine character of the different proposed codes would be a recurring argument in the identitary linguistic debate from then on. A strong and real rapprochement was only practiced by minority intellectual groups and pro-independence groups with limited presence in the Galician social space. A number of orthographic and morphological norms that are remote from the Portuguese model

Galician literature and the imaginary17 and considered to be closer to popular speech have functioned as official since 1982. However their successive versions, up to the one known today as the “normativa de concordia” (rules for concord) adopted by the Real Academia Galega in 2003 (although considered insufficient by a significant part of the reintegrationist sector), appear to be evolving in part toward the Portuguese norm. Official bodies only support and subsidize texts written according to these norms, thus continuing the polemic and its effects in the process of linguistic normalization. As can be deduced, at the root of this conflict there has been another one made up of the constitutive elements of the imaginary and the dominant self-identification in Galician literature since its origins. The eminently common character attributed to its cultural formation — language being its principal component — was progressively adopted as the instrument of literary production. This popular root and its “normative” power, along with the absence of a universalized differentiation of linguistic registers, causes significant problems in the repertories of writing and reading. The “people” (that is to say, the lower socio-economic classes, especially peasants, and sailors to a lesser degree, but not the working class at all, which was almost non-existent), seen in romantic terms, were considered the active recipients of Galician culture, which refused to die. The aforementioned Cantares Gallegos is, in a sense, the strongest formulation of that attitude of reclaiming the popular, and a model reproduced on many occasions. Henceforth, popular culture starts to be identified as a large part of what Galician culture is and should be. In linguistic terms, this is not easy to reconcile with practical reintegrationism, which was viewed by its detractors as an elitist proposition, foreign to the Galician people. On another level, this popular character led literary output to focus in large part on the rural as an idiosyncratically Galician element (with the consequent interpretation of the urban as spurious and even of modernization or industrialization as attacks on the Galician paradise that is gradually ceasing to exist); its greatest expression came in Lamas Carvajal’s O Catecismo do Labrego (Catechism of the farmer, 1888), and Neira Vilas’s Memorias dun neno labrego (Memories of a peasant boy, 1961), two of the most circulated and best-known books in the history of Galicia, after those of Rosalía de Castro. Both, to be sure, are full of humoristic sayings, more or less translatable, in an ironic form known as retranca, which, along with the supposed character ambiguity of the Galicians, forms one of most exploited imaginaries in Galician literature, giving rise to studies and anthropological essays. At the same time, since Rosalía’s work, the veneration of the “land,” the “people,” and of their “soul” has produced a literary writing that constructs the stereotype of the Galician language and being as sweet and lyrical. Additionally, a configuration of the landscape interpreted similarly, with gentle mountains, green fields, a thousand rivers, and calm inlets also contributes to such a stereotype. This lyricism would be a constant in the histories of regionalist literature (Carré Aldao 1903, 55–57) and would also serve as a differentiating element in relation to the referent of opposition symbolized by Castile. In the aforementioned speech from 1891, Murguía, again melding strong elements of the Galician nationalist cultural imaginary, states: With the language we also have a literature and especially a poetry of our own. There are some who say this is not true. Why, only they know; but as for us, we know the opposite all too well. Our poetry has feeling for its muse, while that of central and Southern Spain has only imagination. See what an essential difference. It is the same for everything. Our poetry has a human note, a modern note, and it had it before now. (quoted in Risco 1976, 83)

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Another of the important themes of the imaginary is derived from the omnipresent phenomenon of emigration, sometimes seen as liberation (in the work of the man who would later found the Irmandades, Antonio Villar Ponte, for example), but especially as punishment and the fruit of the marginalization of the Galician people. The issue even raised important controversies, such as the one which followed the publication of Viaxe ao país dos ananos (Journey to the land of the dwarves, 1972), in which the most emblematic author of the moment, Celso Emilio Ferreiro, harshly censured a group of those who had emigrated to America as desleigados, a keyword used in Galician nationalism to characterize the supposed traitors to the (rural-popular) essence of the homeland. An additional stereotypical component that is internal to the literary imaginary emerges from the topic of emigration: the presence of compatriots everywhere in the world, and the fact that the Galician people are travellers and adventurers; honest, hardworking, and fighters when it comes to earning a living. This image is contrary to the one created in the places that received the greatest number of Galician immigration, where the dominant stereotype is the opposite: rough, coarse, ignorant, submissive, and selfish. This collective imaginary has an origin, functions, and esthetic consequences that evolve historically in the following sense: in the Galician literary sphere a progressive autonomization occurs in parallel with the overcoming of the imagined “epic” unity of the group toward a greater diversification and specialization of functions. Literature, science, and history autonomize their discourses along general lines and gradually stop proposing and containing political principles and carrying out national functions based on them. Literature ceases to be conceived, in the words of Antón Figueroa and Xoán González-Millán (1997, 152), as a “national macrometaphor.” Nonetheless, the already-described efforts by university groups to revise the sustaining principles of this imaginary that had been taught, propagated, and established did not have the effect of changing collective repertories. Their functions persist somewhat independently because ways of reception and reading do not evolve simultaneously or at the same speed. Although the way of making history changes, the way of interpreting and using it does not change proportionally. Furthermore, there is a general reason: art is rarely “stateless” and it generally carries out functions in a non-explicit way. Saying “Galician” or “French” cinema, for example, at the very least implies referring to national and cultural projects and, to some degree, constructing them. The essentiality that runs through the system from its beginnings is conflictive in relation to offerings qualified as modernizing, and consequently it is at the root of contradictory strategies of agents of the cultural system. Furthermore it even creates interpretive habits that are incompatible with the different literary, televisual, musical, etc., offerings. Galician literature has a permanent characteristic: its conscious nature, which tends to convert artistic production into a tool for the construction of cultural and also political identity, although that political identity is neither clearly defined nor planned. This militant character also produces effects in the acts of reading and writing, in the functioning of the field and in its relationships with other systems as well as in critical reflection. The imaginary as a whole appears with a pragmatic (political) function prior to writing that also accompanies the act of reading. This pragmatic function tends logically to reduce the fictional nature of the texts in favor of their “utilitarian” power. Problems in the social functioning of literature also appear: the militant nature tends to dilute the esthetic opposition between orthodoxy and heterodoxy; the avant-garde, instead of opposing literary premises, is not free of that general political function. This tends to return texts that are formally vanguardist and innovative

Galician literature and the imaginary19 to a certain political orthodoxy. At the same time, in the opposite sense, the political function of which we are speaking assigns a very important role to critical reflection, which produces a permanent search for novelty. This sometimes causes these systems to be more “advanced” than those that are not subject to this pressure. This explains, for example, why in Galicia, people were reading and translating James Joyce, and adopting futurism, etc., with more vigor than in the rest of Spain. Furthermore, the need for external recognition to justify our own existence gave an important role to the literary relationship. However, the incidence of the political in external relations sometimes made it more valued for what it represented than for what it transmitted. This militant repertoire diminishes as literature consolidates itself: its disappearance occurs in writing before it does in reading — the social ways of reading outlast their very causes. The whole of the imaginary carries out founding functions and thus has a pedagogical role that seeks to constitute belief that does not cease to develop “self-stereotypes” for internal consumption. In these stereotypes the essential point is not obviously its hypothetical “truth” but, rather, its power as a social agent. This conditions the literary present of every moment as a permanent noise that affects the esthetic autonomy that never completely disappears. In conclusion, we can say that the most notable characteristic of the imaginary in cases like that of Galician literature is that the representation of its own country and its political project are at the base of the esthetic philosophy. Galicia, more or less fictionalized, appearing as an obsessive and recurring theme through mythic and historical constructions, constitutes the essential object of its own imaginary.

“Catalonia is not Spain” Images of self and other in Catalan literature Stewart King This chapter explores Catalonia’s relationship with(in) Spain, in particular the attempt to articulate a Catalan cultural identity distinct from that of Spain. The complexity of this relationship can be evidenced in a letter dated 21 May 2010 and written by the Col·lectiu Emma, a Catalan blogging collective. In this letter the Col·lectiu responded to an article published on the BBC news website about the death of two British children in the Catalan seaside town of Lloret de Mar. After praising the quality of the BBC’s journalism in general, in this letter the Col·lectiu criticizes the use of the term “Spain” to refer to Catalonia, arguing, “To call Catalonia ‘Spain’ is tantamount to calling Scotland ‘England’” (Col·lectiu Emma). Furthermore, the Col·lectiu draws attention to the misuse of the national descriptor when the journalist refers to the “Spanish” police, noting that “[i]n Catalonia, the police corps is not the Spanish, but, rather, the Catalan police, known as the ‘Mossos d’Esquadra’.” As can be seen in the letter, as well as on their blog site, the collective’s aim is to correct misunderstandings about Catalonia in the international media. The collective, however, appears to have a secondary aim. That is, to educate the international community about Catalonia’s cultural distinctiveness. This secondary objective can be summed up in the slogan “Catalonia is not Spain,” which has become increasingly visible throughout Catalonia over the past decade. While the “Catalonia is not Spain” campaign appears very modern, the discourse itself has a long history. Indeed, since the nineteenth-century revival of literature, language, and culture, Catalan writers, intellectuals, and cultural figures in particular have sought to understand Catalan cultural difference and to problematize the idea of Spain. Although the slogan “Catalonia is not Spain” is refreshingly straightforward in its desire to articulate Catalan cultural difference, the degree of separation is not as simple as the slogan initially suggests. It is significant that the slogan singles out Catalan difference from Spain. Catalonia is also not England, France, Germany, or China, but — perhaps for obvious reasons — the author(s) of the slogan do not feel the need to mention these countries. By emphasizing what Catalonia is not — Spain — the slogan highlights the profound relationship that exists between the two entities. Understanding this relationship is the objective of this chapter. In particular, I argue that the assertion of a specific Catalan identity has only been made possible via the simultaneous construction of certain images of the Spanish nation. Despite the connection between Catalonia and Spain, studies of Catalan identity tend to focus exclusively on the construction of certain self-images — those qualities and traits which came to be considered characteristic of Catalan cultural identity (Prats 1988; Fradera 1992). Rarely do these studies examine so-called “hetero-images.” That is, the construction of “images which characterize the Other” (Beller & Leerssen 2007, xiv). Through an analysis of the trope of exile, the chapter will focus on the ways in which in order to consolidate Catalan self-identity various writers from the nineteenth century until the present day construct an image of Spain as Catalonia’s cultural other. Specifically, I shall examine several nineteenth-century texts before analyzing two relatively recent historical novels that treat the topic of Catalonia’s defeat in the War of Spanish Succession and its incorporation within the modern Spanish nation-state. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.03kin © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Images of self and other in Catalan literature21 In his article “Reflections on exile,” Edward Said argues that an exilic discourse is a necessary step in the development of national independence movements. For Said, this exile is not based on physical banishment; rather it develops “from a condition of estrangement,” and he goes on to note that “[t]he struggles to win American Independence, to unify Germany or Italy, to liberate Algeria were those of national groups separated — exiled — from what was construed to be their rightful way of life” (1990, 359). Said’s observations apply also to Catalonia, where many Catalans have felt that they were alienated from their traditional way of life, customs, and in some instances, language. As I shall argue below, this sense of exile became a critical factor in shaping the representation not only of Catalonia, but also of Spain in Catalan literature from the Renaixença (Renaissance) onwards. It is important to note that in studying the image of Spain in Catalan literature I am not concerned with the veracity or accuracy of such representations. Indeed, following Joep Leerssen’s presentation of imagologist literary theories, I am more concerned with how these representations act as “textual strategies and as discourse” (2007a, 27). The aim, therefore, is not necessarily to seek to correct “erroneous” representations, but to understand the role played by a particular discourse about self and others in a specific historical, social, and cultural context. Although the focus of this study is on literary representation in its broadest sense — that is, works of cultural, historical, and philosophical inquiry in addition to les belles lettres — it should be noted that these representations are intricately linked to a wider political discourse and that they form part of a countercultural movement which can be described basically as postcolonial in nature (see King 2004 & 2006). While there were calls for and, indeed attempts at, Catalan independence from 1640 onwards, the first sustained movement for cultural independence began in the nineteenth century with the Renaixença. This revival of Catalan literature and culture was a reaction to several centuries of Castilian cultural imperialism, which had sought to forge a single Spanish national culture and identity. As a consequence of this Castilian cultural centralization, many Catalans, according to the writer and intellectual Joan Mañé i Flaquer “had ceased to be Catalans” (1857, 430). Although the Renaixença was a heterogeneous movement, its aim was to overcome this sense of estrangement, of exile, and to restore Catalans’ sense of cultural identity. Whether a restoration — or an invention — of Catalan cultural difference, broadly speaking, the Renaixença sought to promote the use of Catalan as a language of high cultural expression and to reclaim Catalan customs, history, and laws which were seen as setting Catalans apart from other Spaniards. The Catalan Renaixença, however, did not just aim to revive Catalan culture from what was perceived as its parlous state after several centuries of attempted Hispanicization. It also established a series of myths that defined and represented Catalonia and the Catalans. Furthermore, in the process of defining certain cultural traits that were considered to be Catalan, the renaixentistes also excluded others that were thought to be foreign to Catalan culture. In so doing, they constructed an image of Spain and Spaniards. The Renaixença began symbolically in 1833 with the publication of Bonaventura-Carles Aribau’s ode “La pàtria” (The fatherland) in the Barcelonan literary magazine El vapor (The steam). The significance of Aribau’s poem for the Catalan nation was apparent even before publication. In the introduction which accompanied the poem, the magazine’s editors highlighted its national importance when they wrote that “We present it [the poem] to our readers with the patriotic pride with which a Scot would introduce verses by Sir Walter Scott to the

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inhabitants of his country” (Molas 1982, 212). Whatever the ode’s literary merits, no one doubts its symbolic value. Indeed, its reputation has grown since publication, such that it has become “the most published and studied poem in the history of Catalan literature” (Prats 1988, 45). This success can be attributed to Aribau’s ability to encapsulate in the poem’s 48 verses “the expression of an elemental Catalanism which had not found such frank and sincere expression for many centuries” (Peers 1933, 203). Aribau wrote the poem when he resided in Madrid, and this sense of separation and even estrangement from his homeland permeates the poem. The ode begins with a farewell, a permanent leave-taking which the poetic voice directs to the nation: Good bye, hills, forever goodbye; Oh rugged mountains who in my country, At a distance, I hold apart from the clouds and the sky By the eternal rest, by the deepest shade of blue. Goodbye to you, old Montseny, who from atop your highest palace You stand watch covered in fog and snow And watch through a hole the tomb of the Jew, And in the middle of the vast ocean, the Majorcan ship.1

He specifically bids farewell to the hills and serrated mountain which evoke, for Catalan readers, the sacred mountain of Montserrat. The poem also addresses or alludes to other easily identifiable national landmarks, such as Montseny, Montjuich, Majorca, and the Llobregat river (l. 22). From these, it is clear that the pàtria in question is Catalonia. In the following stanza, the narrator describes his relationship with this landscape: I knew your proud face then, As well as I could have known the faces of my own parents; I knew also the sound of the streams Like my mother’s voice, or my child’s cries, But now stripped away by fate which followed me I no longer recognize by sight or sound as I once did with joy: Like the tree who swept into a foreign land Its fruits lose their taste and its flowers lose their fragrance.2

For the narrator, the Catalan landscape is as familiar and as recognizable as “the faces of my own parents,” and its sounds are comparable to his mother’s voice and his children’s cries. It forms part of his family, with all the intimacy that that implies. This idyllic scene is, however, tinged with nostalgia and loss through the use of the imperfect tense — “coneixia” (l. 9) — implying 1.

“Adéu-siau, turons, per sempre adéu-siau, / oh serres desiguals que, allí en la pàtria mia / dels núvols e del cel de lluny vos distingia / per lo repòs etern, per lo color més blau. / Adéu tu, vell Montseny, que, des ton alt Palau, / com guarda vigilant, cobert de boira e neu, / guaites per un forat la tomba del jueu / e al mig del mar immens la mallorquina nau” (Aribau 1965, 19; ll.1–8; translated by Jordi Torres). Unless stated otherwise, all translations are my own.

2.

“Jo ton superbe front coneixia llavors / com conèixer pogués lo front de mos parents; / coneixia tan bé lo so de tos torrents, / com la veu de ma mare e de mon fill los plors. / Mes, arrencat després de fats perseguidors, / Jo no conec n sent com en millors vegades; / així d’arbre migrat a terrer apartades / son gust perden los fruits e son perfum les flors” (Aribau 1965, 19; ll.9–16; translated by Jordi Torres).

Images of self and other in Catalan literature23 that the narrator no longer recognizes them easily now. This loss of recognition is explained in lines 13–16, where the narrator’s diminished familiarity with his homeland is attributed to his dislocation. It is only in lines 17–20, however, that we understand the reason for his leave-taking, as the narrator addresses his farewell from Castile. What good is it that I might have the specious luck Of seeing Castile’s towers up close, If the troubadours’ songs don’t reach my ear, Nor do they awaken in my heart a generous memory?3

In evoking the nation from Castile, the poetic voice establishes a link between two cultural spaces: between here and there, Castile and Catalonia. The difference between the two spaces is significant. Unlike the intimate, natural space that is the narrator’s fatherland, Castile is seen as artificial, as represented by the man-made “towers” of the castles that give Castile its name. For the narrator, however, these towers provoke “specious luck,” as they represent his alienation and exile. The towers can also be read metaphorically as a symbol of Castilian dominance and the narrator’s physical distance can, thus, represent the sense of exile — of separation from their cultural identity — that many renaixentistes felt within Spain, as exemplified by Mañé’ i Flaquer’s comment quoted above. Indeed, as Josep Torras i Bages argues in La tradició catalana (The Catalan tradition, 1892), to adopt Castilian culture and customs, particularly to express oneself in Castilian, is to become a “stranger in Catalonia” (Torras i Bages 1981, 56). Aribau’s narrator further distinguishes between the two spaces when he alludes to Catalonia’s proud past in lines 25–28: It still pleases me, however, to speak the language of the wise Who filled the universe with their customs and their laws, The language of the strong who respected the wishes of the kings, Defended their rights, avenged all injuries against them.4

This evocation of Catalonia’s medieval past is significant because it highlights the existence of an alternative national narrative, one which, as we will see below, is specifically Catalan, rather than Spanish. The remainder of the poem is largely dedicated to the importance of the Catalan language, what the poetic self calls llemosí (from Lemoges, with its troubadour connotations): Cursed, cursed be the ungrateful soul who, in some strange land, His native accent sounding on his lips, doesn’t cry; Who at the thought of his home is not consumed and does not pine, Nor does he collect from the sacred wall his grandparents’ lyre.

3.

“Que val que m’haja tret una enganyosa sort / a veure de més prop les torres de Castella, / si el cant dels trobadors no sona en mon orella / ni desperta en mon pit un generós record?” (Aribau 1965, 19; ll.17–20; translated by Jordi Torres).

4.

“Plau-me encara parlar la llengua d’aquells savis / que ompliren l’univers de llurs costums e lleis, / la llengua d’aquells forts que acataren los reis, / defengueren llurs drets, venjaren llurs agravis” (Aribau 1965, 20; ll.25–28; translated by Jordi Torres).

Stewart King

24 My first cry rang out in Lemosin, When from my mother’s breast sweet milk I drank; In Lemosin I prayed to God each day, And songs in Lemosin I dreamed each night. If when I find myself alone, I speak to my soul, I speak to it in Catalan, for he hears no other language, And my mouth knows not to lie, nor does it lie, As reasons flood out from the center of my chest.5

In these verses, Aribau creates a firm link between nation and language, as it is through the Catalan language that the poetic voice is able to overcome exile and to maintain contact with the fatherland, its landscape and history. Like the narrator’s intimate, familial relationship with the Catalan landscape, language is similarly linked to the family, particularly to his infancy, “When from my mother’s breast sweet milk I drank.” Yet, it is not limited exclusively to the family context. The language also becomes sacred, a language worthy of divine communication and, somewhat hyperbolically, a language in which the poetic voice cannot but be true to his genuine self. This combination of the familial, the divine, and the authentic in the renaixentista imagination contributed to make the Catalan language the most obvious expression of Catalan identity. It is no coincidence that language also served — and still serves — as the dividing line that separates Catalans from Castilians (see Woolard 1989). The effect of Aribau’s ode on Catalan culture cannot be understated. Following its publication, numerous poets, historians, and, later, novelists — including, among others, Joaquim Rubió i Ors, Pere Mata, Víctor Balaguer, Antoni and Pròsper Bofarull, Manuel Milà i Fontanals, Jacint Verdaguer, Joan Cortada, and Carles Bosch de la Trinxeria — set out to write Catalonia into existence. They did so largely following Aribau’s example and distinguishing themselves (Catalonia and its culture) from Castile. Indeed, the promotion of Catalan difference became an obsession of the renaixentista movement. Juan Cortada, for example, in his Cataluña y los catalanes (Catalonia and the Catalans, 1860) clearly expressed that the Catalans are not like other Spaniards, and by that we don’t mean that they are better or worse, but simply that they are not like other Spaniards, in the same way that Galicians are not like Andalusians, Valencians are not like the Navarrese, the Aragonese are not like Asturians. Well, is there any doubt that Catalans are not like other Spaniards? (1860, 59)

Although Cortada conceives of Catalans as Spaniards, his division of Spain into its constituent cultural and ethnic groups is significant because it was only by doing so that Catalans were then able to create a separate cultural identity. As we saw in Aribau’s ode, the articulation of a separate Catalan cultural space is dependent on constructing Castile as Catalonia’s Other. While this can be interpreted as little more than a struggle to differentiate Catalonia and its culture and history from another region of 5.

“Muira, muira l’ingrat que, al sonar en sos llavis / per estranya regió l’accent natiu, no plora, / que, al pensar en sos lars, no es consum ni s’enyora / ni cull del mur sagrat la lira dels seus avis. En llemosí sonà lo meu primer vagit / quan del mugró matern la dolça llet bevia; / en llemosí al Senyor pregava cada dia / e càntics llemosins somiava cada nit. / Si, quan me trobe sol, parl’ amb mon esperit, / en llemosí li parli, que altra llengua no sent, / e ma boca llavors no sap mentir, ni ment, / puix surten mes raons del centre de mon pit” (Aribau 1965, 20; ll.29–40; translated by Jordi Torres).

Images of self and other in Catalan literature25 Spain, it can also be read as the beginning of a rejection of Spain itself. This act of cultural separation is significant because, as Manfred Henningsen argues, “The politics of purity and exclusion originates in the quest for the identity and authenticity of a cultural Self that feels threatened by the hegemonic presence of another culture” (1989, 31–32). Henningsen goes on to argue that the sense of being dominated by a foreign self is an important process whereby particular cultures reject the other and form their independent selves. Given that in Spanish nationalist discourse, Catalonia is part of Spain, it became necessary, as we can see in the quote by Juan Cortada above, to deconstruct the concept of Spanish unity and highlight cultural difference within Spain itself. Indeed, in Catalan nationalist discourse, the rejection of Castile is also — to a large extent — a rejection of Spain (or, at the very least, the rejection of a specific Castilianized image of Spain). As Carles Bastons i Vivanco and Lluís Busquets i Grabulosa (2002, 24) note, the boundaries between Castile and Spain in Catalan literary texts are often blurred due to Castile’s hegemonic and — many Catalans would argue — imperialist role in the political and cultural formation of Spain. An example of this is Valentí Almirall’s influential 1886 essay Lo catalanisme (Catalanism), in which the Catalan politician and political philosopher criticized what he saw as Castilian imperialism, arguing that “[w]hen [Castile] was strong, it wanted to dominate the world. When the sad reality convinced it of its inability to bring to fruition this unrealizable objective, it did not give up its pretentions. It limited itself to dominating Spain” (1979, 43). Castile is not, then, just another region of Spain. It comes to represent the very idea of Spain itself. Almost from the very beginning of the renaixentista movement, Catalan writers developed a discourse about Catalonia’s subjugation under Castile, a discourse which has had a profound influence on the image of Castile (and a Castilianized Spain) in Catalan culture and society. As we saw in Aribau’s “La pàtria,” “Castile’s towers” not only represent the narrator’s sense of alienation and contribute to his feelings of exile; they also stand as a reminder of the Castilian political domination which Almirall highlighted. The sense of alienation felt initially by Aribau’s poetic voice, however, developed quickly in later literary works into a sense of hostility towards Castile, particularly for the perceived imposition of Castilian culture, language, and laws on Catalonia. This can be seen in Víctor Balaguer’s poem “Delenda est Carthago” (Carthage must be destroyed), in which he highlights the violence associated with the imposition of Castilian culture and language and the subsequent erasure of Catalan culture in Catalonia: Ay Castilian Castile You’ve ripped apart this Catalan land! You’ve dragged our history, Our language and our glory Through your muddy fields. Ay Castilian Castile, If only the Catalan land Had never known you!6

6.

“¡Ay Castella castellana / de la terra catalana tu n’has fet un esborranch! / Tos sayons la nostra história, / nostra lléngua y nostra gloria / arrossegaren pèl fanch. / ¡Ay Castella castellana, / si la terra catalana / no t’hagués conegut may!” (Balaguer 1868, 20; ll.18–27).

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In Balaguer’s controversial refrain, Castile’s naked aggression has threatened Catalonia, its way of life, history, culture, and language. This anti-Castilian discourse became a common feature of late-renaixentista literature. For example, the threat that Castile poses to Catalonia is made implicit in Carles Bosch de la Trinxeria’s 1889 novel L’hereu Noradell (The Noradell heir), a story of a wealthy and self-sufficient Catalan family — the Noradells — whose patrimony and way of life are almost destroyed when Marçal, the heir to the family fortune, ignores his father’s dying wishes and goes to Madrid to represent Catalan interests in the national parliament. Throughout the novel, L’hereu Noradell establishes a series of cultural tropes about both Catalans and Castilians. For example, Marçal is described as “a man of the country, a farmer, lover of nature, of its riches, and its products,” while Madrid embodies “good manners, finery, that attractive and superficial means of address which the Castilian language seems to embody expressly.”7 Away from Catalonia, however, Marçal’s Catalan commonsense, down-to-earth nature, and financial prudence are abandoned, as he becomes seduced by the symbols of success in the Spanish capital, including a “first-floor apartment on Alcalá […], a beautiful carriage and three expensive horses, a cook, […] a footman and a driver.”8 In Madrid, Marçal pays little attention to his ancestral estate and takes silly financial risks, gambling and losing large sums at cards and on the stock market. According to the moralistic narrator, Marçal’s behavior means that he has lost his Catalanness and “is now Castilian, part of the conservative party, subservient to the boss, […] without his commonsense, without that good Catalan judgement which distinguished him so much at the beginning. He no longer writes in Catalan, he only speaks and writes in Castilian.”9 Marçal’s linguistic defection is made all the more significant because earlier a Catalan peasant had noted that the Castilian politician whom Marçal defeated in the elections — the gratuitously named Sr. Sánchez Martínez y González — “speaks a different language than ours. He does not understand us nor will we understand him.”10 While Marçal is — in contemporary parlance — living “large” in Madrid, his wine-­producing estate in Girona is threatened by a phylloxera plague, to which it eventually succumbs. This, combined with his debts and profligacy, forces Marçal to give up the extravagant lifestyle which the Spanish capital demanded and, now destitute, he flees from “aquella terra maleïda” (1979, 103; that accursed land) — Castile — and returns to Catalonia, where, humbled, he and his family are forced to work the land like poor peasants. Although his penury can be interpreted as punishment for his profligate behavior, Marçal’s return to a traditional way of life is also the means by which he can gain salvation, as it enables him to reconnect with his Catalan roots and slowly begin to rebuild his family fortune.

7.

“home del camp, agricultor, amant de la naturalesa, de sa riquesa, de sos productes” / “l’amabilitat, la finura, aquell parlar atractiu, superficial pel qual la llengua castellana sembla feta exprés” (Bosch de la Trinxeria 1991, 63).

8.

“primer pis en lo carrer d’Alcalà […], una hermosa carretel·la i tres cavalls de preu […], cuiner, […] lacaio i cotxero” (Bosch de la Trinxeria 1991, 92).

9.

“[a]ra és castellà, ficat al partit conservador, obeint al capitost […] sense aquell bon sentit pràctic, sense aquell bon criteri català que tan lo distingia al principi. Ja no escriu més en català, parla i escriu en castellà” (Bosch de la Trinxeria 1991, 101).

10.

“És que parla un llenguatge diferent del nostre. No ens entén ni l’entendríem” (Bosch de la Trinxeria 1991, 49).

Images of self and other in Catalan literature27 In Bosch de la Trinxeria’s world view, Catalonia’s connection with Castile has led to Catalonia’s downfall. As we can see in L’hereu Noradell, the court acts as a Siren, attracting Catalans with its seductive song so that they abandon the reason for which they are known and respected. The tragedy of the novel is that Marçal was aware of this early in the narrative, when he tried to convince his friends and colleagues that for Catalans to pursue a political career in Madrid was a waste of time and energy, arguing that We cannot stand each other and that is how things are: between Castilians and us, on top of the sad historical memories, there is and there will always be the racial antipathy that makes the differences of character, ways of thinking, customs and language incompatible. For this reason, our aspirations — not for separation, but for autonomy — are legitimate within that heterogeneous conglomeration that makes up Spain.11

While Bosch de la Trinxeria places great importance on what he sees as the racial incompatibility of Catalans and Castilians, it is perhaps the “sad historical memories” which have played — since the Renaixença until the present day — an even greater role in shaping the discourse of Catalan cultural difference as well as the Catalan image of Spain. The question of history — what is remembered and how it is remembered — is a highly contested issue in contemporary Spain, one that particularly affects center-periphery relations. Randolph Pope argues that the history of Spain has largely focused on the achievements of Castile, as Castilian-centric historians have presented this history as the one, true history of Spain (1987–88, 212–13). David Herzberger argues that this was particularly true of the Franco regime, during which Francoist historians rewrote the history of Spain according to their own criteria (1995, x & 16). This involved, in the words of Rafael Calvo Serer, “the rejection of those elements that cannot be assimilated into the unified and orthodox national tradition” (Díaz 1983, 54). Thus, alternative histories, such as Catalan, Basque, and Galician histories, which challenge the national narrative, are often marginalized when not suppressed entirely. The question of which history is told is significant because, as Edward Said argues, the “power to narrate, or to block other narratives from forming and emerging, is very important to culture and imperialism, and constitutes one of the main connections between them” (1993, xiii). To hinder alternative histories is to deny particular groups, like the Catalans, their distinct identity as Catalans. Thus, one of the means by which Catalans have sought to articulate their cultural difference has been through the representation of an alternative national history. This is significant because it is through such representations that colonized peoples have been able to “assert their own identity and the existence of their own history” (Said 1993, xiii). Following Aribau, who alluded to Catalonia’s past in the fourth stanza of “La pàtria,” when he mentioned those “strong who respected the wishes of the kings, / Defended their rights, avenged all injuries against them,” the renaixentistes became obsessed with recounting Catalonia’s past glories. Influenced by Herderian national historicism, many renaixentistes produced historical studies, such as Pròsper de Bofarull’s Los condes de Barcelona vindicados (A vindication of the 11.

“Ens avorreixen i és natural: entre castellans i nosaltres, a més dels dolorosos records histórics, hi ha e hi haurà sempre l’antipatia de raça que fa incompatible la diferència de caràcter, de pensar, de costums, de llenguatge. Per’xò nostres aspiracions, no a la separació, mes sí a una autonomia, són legítimes [entre] eixa aglomeració heterogènea que forma Espanya” (Bosch de la Trinxeria 1991, 89).

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counts of Barcelona, 1836), Pablo Piferrer’s Recuerdos y bellezas de España (Memories and wonders of Spain, 1838–50), the only two published volumes of which dealt with Catalonia, and Víctor Balaguer’s three-volume study on the Historia de Cataluña y de la Corona de Aragon (History of Catalonia and of the crown of Aragon, 1860–63). Furthermore, the first Catalan historical journal, Revista de Cataluña (Journal of Catalonia) was published in 1862. Moreover, in addition to these historical studies, several writers, such as Juan Cortada and Antoni de Bofarull, inspired by Sir Walter Scott’s historical romances, attempted to appropriate the medieval setting of his historical novels to a Catalan context. Cortada between 1835 and 1840 wrote five Castilian-language novels situated in medieval Catalonia, of which the most famous is Lorenzo (1837), while Bofarull is recognized for his 1862 novel, L’orfeneta de Menàrguens (The little orphan from Menàrguens), which is considered the first historical novel in Catalan. Catalonia’s medieval past was also the subject of numerous poems, including Jacint Verdaguer’s Canigó (1885), an epic poem that recounts Catalonia’s foundation between the tenth and eleventh centuries (for a discussion of the importance of the medieval period in Catalan literature from the Renaixença until the present day, see Sobrer 2008). The focus by the renaixentistes on the Middle Ages is important because it was during this period that Catalonia was a major European power, with an extensive empire throughout the Mediterranean. Furthermore, the Middle Ages were considered to be the zenith of Catalan national literary culture with the writings of Ramon Llull, Ausiàs March, Bernat Metge, Ramon Muntaner, Bernat Desclot, and Jaume I, among others. Finally, it was the period when Catalonia was politically independent of Castile. The promotion of a distinct Catalan history by intellectuals and historians had specific objectives. First, to correct the mistaken belief that Castilian history was Spanish history (Balaguer 1860, 11). Second, to “disseminate among all classes the love of the nation and the memory of its past glories,” according to the subtitle of Víctor Balaguer’s Historia de Cataluña. Finally, remembering the past also had a political objective. To do so was, according to Lluís Cutchet, editor of the Revista de Cataluña, crucial if Catalonia was not to turn into an Iberian Poland (Molas et al. 1984, 229), another European country with a proud history, but which no longer existed officially (for more on the topic of renaixentista historiography, see Hina 1986, 102–07). The fear that Catalonia would, like Poland, cease to exist, perhaps led to a change in historical orientation from the Middle Ages to a treatment of historical topics which tended to emphasize Catalonia’s subordination within the Spanish nation-state. In his analysis of the poems presented to the Jocs Florals (Floral games), Joan-Lluís Marfany notes that Catalan poets tended to focus their attention on post-medieval historical episodes that highlighted Catalonia’s conflict with Castile — in particular, the Reapers’ War of 1640 and the War of Spanish Succession — or on historical figures involved in these wars, such as Pau Claris and Rafael de Casanova (Marfany 1992, 26–29). The Reapers’ War and the War of Spanish Succession are particularly pertinent to Catalan self-identity because they have provided Catalans with two important nationalist symbols: respectively the Catalan national anthem, Els segadors (The reapers), and Catalonia’s national day, L’onze de setembre (11 September), which is the day that Barcelona surrendered to the forces of Philip V and which, since the end of the nineteenth century, is associated with the abolition of Catalonia’s own political institutions and with the suppression of the Catalan legal tradition (Marfany 1995, 193).

Images of self and other in Catalan literature29 The significance of the Eleventh of September is evidenced in Montserrat Roig’s L’òpera quotidiana (The everyday opera, 1982), in which in one scene Horaci Duc recounts how during the Franco regime he taught his young, Castilian-speaking wife what Catalonia was because I wanted her to enter Catalonia with love, not by force, as the others had done with us. I told her of the heroes of the Eleventh of September, that one day we would again be able to go in pilgrimage to Casanova’s statue, and that we would cover it in flowers. […] We needed to remember it every year so that we were reminded that once upon a time our people had been free and that they no longer were.12

Like Duc, many nationalist historians, including Ferran Soldevila, argue that the War of Spanish Succession signified “the end of the Catalan nation” (Balcells 1980, 15), as Catalonia was perceived to be subsumed into a homogenous Spanish nation-state. Given this interpretation, the commemoration of this event is crucial to understanding the image of Spain in Catalan literature. Indeed, numerous writers have treated this topic. Two early attempts include Francesc Pelai Briz’s El coronel d’Anjou (The colonel from Anjou, 1872) and Vigatans i botiflers (National heroes and traitors, 1878) by Pilar Maspons. Nevertheless, it was only after the demise of the Franco regime that novelists began to deal with this topic in depth: Ramon Pallicé published Cap de brot (The leader, 1982), Isabel Ledo, La Vall d’Or (The golden valley, 1996), Daniel Closa, Setembre de passió (Passionate September, 1997), and Alfred Bosch wrote 1714, a bestselling trilogy consisting of Set de rey (Thirst for royalty, 2002), Sota la pell del diable (Under the devil’s skin, 2002), and Toc de vespres (Night call, 2002). In anticipation of the three-hundredth anniversary of the Eleventh of September, two further significant novels that explore this topic have been published: Albert Sánchez Piñol’s bestselling and controversial novel, Victus (2012), and Lliures o morts (Free or dead, 2012) by Jaume Clotet and David de Montserrat, but these were unavailable at the time of this chapter’s composition (2010). Given the significance of this historical event for understanding the image of Spain in Catalan literature, I shall examine two of these texts: Ramon Pallicé’s Cap de brot, written shortly after the end of the Franco regime, and Alfred Bosch’s 1714 trilogy. While these novels deal in great detail with the cultural and political implications of 1714, they nevertheless approach the topic from very different perspectives. Ramon Pallicé’s Cap de brot uses the War of Spanish Succession to highlight post-Franco Catalonia’s subordination within the Spanish nation-state (Broch 1991, 85). Set after the fall of Barcelona, the novel recounts the adventures of Pere Simó, an officer in the Catalan army and a war hero. It begins in the town of Prades — following the surrender of the remaining Catalan resistance — where Pere reflects on his future “amb l’amargor del vençut” (Pallicé 1982, 15; with the bitterness of the defeated). Pere’s life has been turned upside down: his girlfriend, Mercè, disappeared during the siege of Barcelona, and his dream to become a lawyer is shattered by Philip V’s suppression of the Catalan legal system and the imposition of Castilian law. In post-1714 Catalonia, Pere lives as an internal exile; that is, he does not adhere to the dominant values and political system of the time (Ilie 1980, 2). Pere’s sense of alienation from his homeland is made obvious when he returns to Reus, where he observes “Something strange 12.

“què era Catalunya […]. Perquè volia que hi entrés amb amor, no per la força, com havien fet amb nosaltres. Li vaig parlar dels herois de l’Onze de Setembre, que arribaria un dia en què tornariem a anar en peregrinació a l’estàtua d’en Casanova, i que la cobriríem de flors. […] calia recordar-ho cada any per a tenir ben present que un dia el nostre poble havia estat lliure i que ara no n’era” (Roig 1982, 39–40).

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could be felt at the Mercadal as well as at Valls Square, where there was something new which had previously been unknown: Bourbon soldiers.”13 The presence of Pere’s enemies in his hometown is not just, from his perspective, a visual blot on the urban landscape. He realizes when he sees them in front of the town hall that “where the people once decided the future of the town, now those forces were in control.”14 Thus, not only have the Catalans lost their own laws, they also have no control over their own affairs. Furthermore, they suffer hangings, the requisitioning of their goods, and they are forced to house enemy troops (Pallicé 1982, 52, 54–57). The Castilian heavy-handedness, arrogance, and violence towards the Catalans is represented in the figure of Don Álvaro, the second son of a Spanish Grandee, who provokes the town’s people so much that, led by Pere, they rebel. When the rebellion fails, Pere is forced into exile in England, where he becomes a successful businessman. Sixteen years after he left, Pere is able to return to Reus in 1736 or what he describes as “de nostra esclavitud 22” (Pallicé 1982, 433; twenty-second year of our enslavement). Despite the time which has passed, little has changed, as the Bourbon soldiers are still a constant presence. After years of avoiding what Pere refers to as his national responsibility, in returning he aims to make sure that Catalonia regains its former grandeur. Pere aspires to save Catalonia through economic development and by making sure that his Catalan compatriots do not abandon their Catalan distinctiveness. In particular, Pere is worried about the young Catalans who have grown up with Castilian domination and who perhaps treat it as the normal state of affairs. To this end, he funds an organization to teach history, particularly “els grans dies de les llibertats catalanes” (Pallicé 1982, 437; the great days of Catalan freedom). Such an objective is mirrored in Pallicé’s novel. Alfred Bosch’s 1714 trilogy differs markedly from Cap de brot in several ways. It is set before and during the war, rather than after it. Whereas Cap de brot is narrated very much from the micro perspective, Bosch looks at the broader historical context. Indeed, the first volume — Set de rei — begins in Versailles where Louis XIV announces that his grandson, Philip of Anjou, will be the next king of Spain. Furthermore, the story is narrated from the perspective of a young Englishman, John Sinclair, who acts initially as a kind of eighteenth-century James Bond, seducing his way through various royal courts and trying to convince the Catalans to rebel against Philip V in favor of Charles of Austria. Although he initially makes fun of Catalan pretensions — he describes Barcelona as stuck in the Middle Ages and he scoffs at the suggestion that the Generalitat is similar to the English parliament — Sinclair comes to see the Catalans in a favorable light, acknowledging their difference from both Spaniards and French (Bosch 2008, 83). Despite this difference, Bosch does not fall into the Manichean trap of describing the supporters of Philip V as “baddies” and the Catalans as “goodies.” Rather, he paints a far more complex portrait of Catalonia and Spain at the time. Instead of being unified in their opposition to Philip V, the Catalans are divided politically in their support for different monarchs and along class lines, with many rich and upper-class Catalans leaving Barcelona and “el poble baix […] que aguanta” (Bosch 2008, 520; the lower class to hang on). Indeed, even the legendary struggle of the “miquelets” — the irregular soldiers who fight against the invading forces throughout the Catalan countryside — is demythified: “It was 13.

“Quelcom d’estrany surava al Mercadal, com al pati de Valls; ací, però, un nou element donava una visió abans desconeguda; els soldats borbónics” (Pallicé 1982, 25).

14.

“on abans el poble decidia el futur de la vila, ara aquelles forces eren les mestresses” (Pallicé (1982, 25).

Images of self and other in Catalan literature31 a crude war: full of revenge and lacking in heroes and great battles […] It seemed more like a vendetta between bandit families who lived too close to each other.”15 Bosch also questions the traditional understanding of the war as a struggle between an independent Catalonia and an imperial Spain. The Catalans are provoked to rebel more through their traditional antipathy towards the French, personified in Philip V, than their hatred of the Castilians (2008, 159). Moreover, he acknowledges that the Castilians were also divided. For example, rather than being painted as an homogenous “enemy,” Bosch has Narcís Feliu de la Penya, one of a number of historical characters who appear throughout the novel, tell Sinclair that friends in Madrid had encouraged the Catalans not to surrender because in Philip V’s palace “es respirava decadència” (Bosch 2008, 312; one breathed in decadence). Although Bosch challenges the stereotyped portrayal of the War of Spanish Succession as Catalonia versus Spain, nevertheless his sympathy lies clearly in the Catalan camp. This can be seen in the figure of John Sinclair, who eventually comes to associate himself with the Catalan cause. He even feels ashamed, indeed revolted, to be English, following Britain’s abandonment of Catalonia in favor of economic opportunities in the New World, namely a monopoly of the Atlantic slave trade (Bosch 2008, 431). Although Castilian internal difference is recognized, as the narrative progresses the Bourbon enemies are eventually described simply as “soldats espanyols” (Spanish soldiers) and it becomes clear that losing the war will mean Catalonia’s disappearance and that Catalans would be just like the Castilians (Bosch 2008, 357, 430, 437). Thus, regardless of Bosch’s demythification of the Eleventh of September, it is still remembered primarily as a conflict between Catalonia and Spain. The image of Castile or Spain in Catalan literature is complex and cannot be reduced to a single representation. Instead, Castile and Spain have provoked an enormous diversity of literary responses. On the one hand, many Catalans have praised Castile’s adventuring spirit and many Catalan writers have expressed admiration for the giants of Castilian literature, such as Cervantes, Calderón de la Barca, Lope de Vega, Unamuno, and Machado. On the other hand, Castile has been criticized for its perceived acts of imperialism, dominance, intolerance, and so forth, which have made it synonymous with Spain (Bastons i Vivanco 2002, 19–27). While recognizing the impossibility of providing an overview of the multiple representations of Spain in Catalan literary discourse, it is nevertheless clear that the image of a Castilianized Spain has played an important role in Catalonia’s articulation of a culturally (and later politically) distinct self. While this discourse first became dominant in renaixentista literature, and while literature is still important in shaping the image of Spain and Catalonia, as we saw at the beginning of the article, the Col·lectiu Emma’s use of blogging shows how Catalans are using new media to articulate their cultural difference. However, regardless of the use of graffiti, posters, bumper stickers, t-shirts, YouTube videos, and Facebook to articulate the idea that “Catalonia is not Spain,” this discourse is dependent upon a specific image of Spain against which Catalans are able to define their distinct cultural identity. Catalonia may not be Spain, but it needs Spain — as its cultural other — in order to exist.

15.

“Era una guerra ben crua, aquella: plena de revenges, mancada d’herois i de grans batalles […] Més aviat, semblava una vendetta entre famílies de bandits que vivien massa a prop” (Bosch 2008, 362).

On the origins of images of gypsies Araceli Cañadas Ortega The creation, dissemination, and establishment in our collective memory of clichés about gypsies and gypsiness have many causes and sources. As for the latter, one can identify the allegedly erudite and academic ones, the folkloric ones, the literary ones, and the journalistic ones. Together, they constitute the base of quotes, references, quotes of quotes, and references to references of a multitude of gypsy and anti-gypsy writings dating from the fifteenth century to today. For the most part, these writings and their sources share an ethnocentric vision and an absolute lack of academic rigor and objectivity. As a result, in the case of stereotyping about gypsies, as with all clichés about historically marked communities, the argumentation is based on two main points. Firstly, the negation of any sign of identity. In this case, negation leads to the theory that gypsies belong to a sect (an international conspiracy of all gypsies to rob, swindle, and sabotage). Secondly, the dehumanization and consequent bestialization of gypsies: the creation of an image of the gypsy that lacks any human features. Gypsies are presented as egotistical monsters with no empathy towards others, as suspects, traitors, potential thieves, and criminals, capable of all kinds of wickedness; in short, as an authentic social threat. In these times of globalization, critical awareness of identity and the search for cultural excellence are indispensable. Hence I propose, using Juan de Quiñones’ Discurso contra los gitanos (Address against gypsies, 1631) as a base, to review and reflect on the clichés about gypsies and gypsiness — which are doubtless some of the most noticeable and known clichés in Spanish culture — with the goal of fostering interculturality, bringing out gypsy culture’s contribution to Spanish, European, and universal culture, and aiding the development of our awareness of gypsy identity.

Clichés One can approach other cultures from three different perspectives. The first is “ethnocentrism.” From this point of view, one approaches other cultures to analyze them based on one’s own, which one considers the measuring stick and model for all others. The second is “cultural relativism,” which considers all cultures to be equal and seeks to analyze and know them based on their own values, but does not seek a meeting of cultures — a mixing, a mutual enrichment — but rather, simple respectful tolerance. The third is “interculturality,” which begins with respect and arrives at the meeting of cultures through critical and reasoned thinking. Both ethnocentrism and cultural relativism can generate clichés, stereotypes, and prejudices because their comparative approach is based on separation and difference between cultures, and anything that is different from one’s own culture — one’s own vision of reality — often comes to be considered as anecdotal, curious, strange, exotic, or, worse, incorrect or inferior. The concept of culture is directly related to the concept of stereotype. The objective of stereotype is to simplify reality and concepts; to establish generalizations and simplifications that allow us to infer and deduce by analogy in order to facilitate learning. Nevertheless, there is doi 10.1075/chlel.29.04ort © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

On the origins of images of gypsies33 always the danger that cultural generalizations, instead of being based on reflective observation with the aim of explaining the habitual practices of a given culture, are based on the uncritical adoption of a set of ideas that have managed to become popular. These stereotyped ideas end up becoming clichés and lead inevitably to prejudices that predetermine our view of the individual behavior of each member of a culture. According to the Diccionario of the Real Academia Española (RAE), tópico (cliché) means, “commonly used phrase that classical rhetoric converted into formulas or clichés, fixed and accepted in formal or conceptual frameworks, which authors employed frequently.” One could further say that the cliché is an image or idea associated with a given group that complicates communication between individuals because it consists of an excessively simplified representation, a caricature of reality. This simplified representation hinders critical reflection about its own conceptual superficiality. Hence, all members of a given social, cultural, or other group are understood to share exactly the same characteristics. If the observer judges them positively, we find ourselves with a positive cliché; for example, German efficiency. If, on the other hand, the observer judges them negatively, we have a negative cliché, for example, Spanish lack of punctuality. Be they positive or negative, all clichés lead to misunderstandings due to their bias and simplification. The other reason for the misunderstandings produced by clichés is that they hinder the process of critical reflection, because the observer only recognizes the characteristics that confirm the validity of the cliché. Anything that does not fit into the observer’s clichéd and preconceived image is ignored. Clichés mean the indiscriminate labeling and categorization of certain social groups, almost always in a negative sense, based on preconceived ideas based in turn on exaggerations of individual characteristics that are then extrapolated to all members of the group, to which is thus attributed a mode of thought and action identical to that (exaggerated) of the individual subject who was observed. The members of the group thus become no more than caricatured representatives of a given country or culture, at the expense of their complexity as human beings. Prejudice is inevitably linked to cliché and presupposes value judgments about a given theme, individual, or social group. As with any cliché, commonplace sayings about gypsies and gypsiness do not spring up suddenly, mushrooming out of nothing; rather, they develop over time. The creation, dissemination, and establishment in our consciousness and collective memory of clichés about gypsies and gypsiness have multiple causes and sources. However, as with all things, there must have been a beginning; that is, interpretations of facts and circumstances that created a seed, the origins of the cliché. It is important to analyze these origins and show that these interpretations were created by specific people who had names, distinctive features, particular situations, and intentions, and are not universal truths or an integral part of human thought. In the task of reviewing and reflecting on the origins of clichés about gypsies and gypsiness, I will analyze the Discurso contra los gitanos that Juan de Quiñones wrote in a memorial to King Philip IV in 1631. This address has been quoted, plagiarized, and commented on in the vast majority of writings about gypsies and gypsiness from its first publication to now. Before beginning my commentary on Quiñones’ text, I will make some observations on memorials and judgments of the seventeenth century, which I believe are necessary for the proper interpretation of the address. The seventeenth century was a century of crisis in Spain and in all of Europe. There were demographic, political, economic, social, and other problems. This decadence, or rather, the

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awareness of it that awoke in the people of that time, caused a series of people to seek the causes of the crisis and possible solutions to it. They are the arbitristas and memorialistas (writers of arbitrios and memoriales). According to Juan Ignacio Gutiérrez Nieto (1986, 236), An arbitrio (judgment) is any proposal designed to increase the income of a kingdom or political entity, but in the whole of the Spanish Monarchy, and particularly in the Crown of Castile, the phenomenon of arbitrism transcended the purely physical and gave rise to an entire corpus of works on political, economic and social thought, often colored by strong reformist tendencies.

Juan de Quiñones wrote his memorial to the king in this spirit of reform, describing and expanding on, as was common at the time, the themes discussed in other memorials written by attorneys of the Courts, government officials, canons, lawyers, and legal experts. One of the themes is the damage that gypsies were causing to the country (robberies, scams, public disturbances, etc.). This issue became one of the most common refrains among writers of judgments and memorials. The vast majority of memorials and judgments of the seventeenth century identify the so-called “gypsy problem” as one of the causes of the decadence and crisis of that time. Here we find ourselves with the ideal breeding ground for the creation of a cliché that, by virtue of repeating itself in various spheres, begins to find a place in both the collective consciousness and memory. The continued reiteration of the idea, with its different embellishments, begins to create a kind of “scholarly apparatus” that lacks academic rigor and objectivity, but that potential authors of memorials, judgments, politico-religious manuals, and similar texts can use to ground, support, and inspire their work. As these texts proliferate, the cliché becomes available to anyone else who wishes to deal with gypsy-related themes. For example, the Quiñones’s address which interests us is cited, referenced, and even plagiarized time and again from the seventeenth century to today — often with the added complication of being a quote of a quote, a reference to a reference, plagiarism of plagiarism, without ever having the original text available. To this so-called “scholarly apparatus” one has to add the wealth of folklore (romances, sayings, proverbs, legends, tales, old wives’ tales, folk songs, etc.; see Mena Cabezas 2004 and Mena Cabezas & Rina López 2008) and its scholarly development in literature, which Julio Caro Baroja calls the “literary cliché.” From the Golden Age to now, numerous authors have used the cliché of gypsies and gypsiness in their works: Cervantes, Mateo Alemán, Vicente Espinel, Jerónimo de Alcalá, Antonio Solís, Lope de Rueda, Ramón de la Cruz, the Duke of Rivas, Estébanez Calderón, Galdós, García Lorca, Valle-Inclán, the Machado brothers, Miguel Hernández, Ramón J. Sender, Cela, Luis Martín-Santos, Ignacio Aldecoa, García Márquez, etc. (see Leblon 1982). The influence of gypsy culture and its interpretations in European and Hispanic literature, music, and art is a very interesting and far-reaching topic. Think, for example, of Romanticism, Spanish art, music, and literature from the Golden Age to now, and, through the latter, gypsy influences on Latin American literature. And so it happens that the confluence of these socio-cultural, folkloric-literary, religiousmoral, and politico-juridical discourses, and their cumulative results, lead to the representation of the gypsy myth in Spain and in Europe, since similar processes were taking place on the rest of the continent. Nevertheless, we must highlight that the strength of the cliché about gypsies and gypsiness in Spain was unmatched in the rest of the world. Let us pause a moment to consider this matter, probably one of the most widespread and known clichés about Spanish culture that describes it as a country of swarthy people, bullfighters,

On the origins of images of gypsies35 flamenco dancers in polka dot clothing, aplomb, temperament, enchantment, spirit, etc. Even today, it would likely not be too difficult to find a foreigner who was surprised to see that Spanish women do not wear flounced skirts as street clothes. It is the Spanish culture of Bizet and Mérimée’s Carmen, of Lorca’s work, of Falla’s El amor brujo (The bewitched love), of the dark beauties painted by Julio Romero de Torres…. In short, it is the España cañí (Gypsy Spain) that would inspire the title of Marquina’s most famous pasodoble. If one searches the Diccionario of the RAE, one finds that cañí means “of the gypsy race.” The word is a gypsyism, one of many that we find in Spanish. That is to say, it is a loan word that Spanish has taken from Romany, the neo-Sanskrit language spoken by gypsies all over the world, through caló, the hybrid language of Spanish gypsies. In caló, “caló, -í” means “black,” and it is the name by which all Spanish gypsies, male (calós) and female (calís), are known. Hence the most known and widespread cliché of Spanish culture has its origins in Spanish gypsy culture. In his article “La tradición y los gitanos” (Gypsies and tradition), Ramón Pérez de Ayala (1963, 140) says, It is strange that they remained an outsider, enslaved or outcast class in every nation in which they found themselves, except for Spain. Furthermore, they were taken as a low-status instrument of relaxation and pastime, as occurred with the gypsies of Bohemia. Nowhere but in Spain did anyone fraternize with cañís, nor did gypsy culture integrate with national tradition, with classism. What mysterious reasons could be behind this affinity? It is worth thinking about.

Like it or not, cañí is one of the most recognizable features of the image of Spanish culture held around the world. In today’s times of globalization, in which it is so important to strive for cultural excellence in order not to be diluted into general Westernness, it is interesting and useful to review and reflect on this facet of the image of Spanish culture.

Juan de Quiñones’s Discurso contra los gitanos Now let us examine the concrete example of Juan de Quiñones’s Discurso contra los gitanos and let us attempt to identify in it the threads of the cliché and a possible reasonable explanation for it. Let us begin by looking at the author, Juan de Quiñones, to see who he was and what his circumstances were. As Julio Caro Baroja (1992, 62) describes in Vidas mágicas e Inquisición, Don Juan de Quiñones was a magistrate during the time of Philip III. His professional functions allowed him to display certain knowledge in short treatises of average scholarship. For example, in 1618, due to a great plague of locusts that devastated Castile, Quiñones […] was charged by the Royal Council to go after the swarms of harmful pests, which gave him reason to publish his brief treatise on locusts, dated 1620. That same year, after the discovery of a cache of gold coins in the port of Guadarrama, he published another treatise with an explanation, which also motivated him to recount the lives of some emperors and to give some political advice. In 1625, they say the Bell of Velilla rang, and Don Juan used his gift of writing again to deny that the bell’s peals were anything other than ordinary […]. He composed a ten-line stanza in praise of the translation of Pliny’s natural history […]. Afterwards, he wrote about gypsies and even later, another short treatise on the bleeding it was believed that Jews experienced from their nether regions […]. Quiñones also wrote on anthrax, on Mount Vesuvius, against a Frenchman who claimed that Francis I had not been captured and brought to Madrid a prisoner, and other things.

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As Caro Baroja shows, Juan de Quiñones did not let any occasion to display his intelligence and knowledge pass him by. He is a clear example of a seventeenth-century arbitrista, who, like all of them, proposed explanations and solutions to divine and human matters with a glibness that provoked criticism and even mockery by the arbitristas’ and memorialistas’ illustrious contemporaries, such as Cervantes and Quevedo. One example of mockery appears in El buscón (The swindler, 1626): on the way to Segovia, Pablos finds himself in the company of a writer of memorials or judgments, who expounds on how he had offered the king an infallible way to take the town of Ostend, by absorbing the sea water, which was hampering the siege, using giant sponges (Quevedo 1990, 136). Now that we have considered these facts about the author, let us look at his text, so that we can see firsthand what Quiñones says in his address. It begins with the following: My Lord. By Your Majesty’s order I went to Sepúlveda, to take proceedings against a group of Gypsies who committed highway robbery against a courier coming from Flanders with tenders in Your Majesty’s service. They unsealed his pouches, removed the documents, believing there were some jewels within them, and made off with some of them, with the money, and with other things he was carrying, leaving him tied up on a mountain. I sought them with all diligence and care. The missing sealed document was found, and I apprehended them: and for this offense, and many other lootings and robberies for which I found proof against these Gypsies, I had five hanged, and, quartered, put on the royal highway, where they committed the offense, as punishment for them and as an example to others. Others were flogged and sent to the galleys; I expelled from this Kingdom the female Gypsies that were flogged, never to return on pain of death. (Quiñones 1631, fol. 1r-v)

Quiñones begins his address with a clear indication of his main purpose: showing that he is an efficient magistrate, a good servant of the king. How does he show this? By carrying out most diligently the monarch’s will on an issue that was difficult to solve and considered to be of great importance to the wellbeing of the kingdom, the issue that was then and forever after called “the gypsy problem.” What was the king’s will? That which was expressed in the laws related to gypsies (on Spanish legislation about gypsies, see Gómez Alfaro 2009 and Martínez Dhier 2007). The issue was not at all inconsequential, because documents from the period show us that in practice the laws were rarely obeyed, which meant urging their enforcement time and again with no satisfactory outcome. Hence a magistrate who applied the laws about gypsies would be considered an efficient servant of the king — one who was able to solve important problems. It is important to note that from 1499, with Ferdinand and Isabella’s first law for gypsies, until the 1978 Constitution, gypsies have been subjected to specific legal ordinances and social measures that are different than those that apply to the rest of the Spanish population. More interesting to note is the resounding failure of legislation against gypsies in Spain from its very beginning. This failure led to additional ordinances reminding the people to comply with the existing laws and rules that were proving ineffectual. Nonetheless, gypsies’ resistance to losing their identities was successful despite many difficulties. In addition to enforcing the law, Quiñones, taking advantage of his aforementioned taste for writing, “feels the need,” as he says, to compose a Discurso contra los gitanos to express his opinion on the topic — which is none other than the need to expel gypsies from the kingdom. In his address, he says the following:

On the origins of images of gypsies37 From what I know, and from what others have told me, I have come to understand that this is a pernicious, wicked, idle, vagrant, useless people, who are of no benefit to these Kingdoms, and who are capable of causing much damage to its subjects and vassals. And hence I find myself obliged to present (in His Majesty’s service) what I have learned and what I know about this accursed riffraff, and relate what kind of people they are, whence they came, what harm they cause, and how they can be dealt with, so that Your Majesty in his judgment can order that they be removed from these Kingdoms, since they accomplish nothing in them but looting and robbery. Having done this, I will consider Your Majesty served and I will have carried out my duties as vassal, and as an Officer who desires to do right in all things. (Quiñones 1631, fols. 1v-2r)

Once he has stated his purpose, Quiñones begins his argument, the first step of which is to discuss the name and origin of gypsies. It is the stuff of nightmares for gypsyphobes and gypsyphiles to this day. This is the issue that has by far received the most interest; it seems that the only important thing is to know where gypsies came from and why they are called gypsies. The study of gypsy culture and its contribution to Spanish, European, and universal culture, seems of little interest even to gypsyphiles and, of course, to gypsyphobes. These degenerates are found with different names in many places. In Castile, they are called Gypsies, or Egyptians. In Italy, Tziganes (cinganos, cingaros or cingalos). In France, Bohemians, or, popularly, baumiens. In High Germany, Tziganes or heathens (Heidiem), in Low Germany, Egyptians (or Hepleidem). In all these places they practice wicked and depraved customs: they live ignorant of God and unobservant of law. The writers that speak of them do not agree on where they came from or where they are originally from. Because some say they are from some regions and others say they are from others. (Quiñones 1631, fol. 2r)

The writers to whom Quiñones refers are his sources. In them we can observe the dearth of new and direct information. Regarding the name and origin of gypsies, as with the rest of the topics he deals with in his address, Quiñones never questions the authority of his sources; it is enough that they support his arguments and those of the writers who would plagiarize his work or use it as a reference without ever examining or researching it. After this “scholarly apparatus,” Quiñones gives his opinion on the matter, stating that it is a myth and nothing more than popular opinion that gypsies came from Egypt, and that no matter what people say about the reasons they wander our soil, they are idolators and not a true nation — that is, citing the Diccionario of the RAE once again, “a group of people who share the same origin and who generally speak the same language and have a common tradition” — they are fugitives, run away from their home villages due to various offenses. We read in the text, The uninformed populace believes that they came from Egypt […] It is all a lie, a trick, fabrications, mixed-up, like the things they say and do: we call them Gypsies more because they imitate the Egyptians’ base way of life than because they are their descendants. And this despicable riffraff is nothing but men and women who have fled after committing offenses, or amassed debts, mutinous and criminal people, who, since they could not stay in places where they were known, retreated to the mountains, or to remote, sparsely populated areas, to hide. And their burned faces are the ravages of the weather, for being plagued by the sun. Boniface says that to appear foreign, from distant lands, they wash their faces each month with the juice of certain herbs, which gives them dark skin. And this makes some believe that they are not Spanish, but natives of another, sun-scorched land like Africa or Egypt. (Quiñones 1631, fol. 6v)

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This idea of feigned identity, which will be repeated ad nauseam in all kinds of texts, leads to the paradox of the gypsy cliché. Let us analyze this paradox in more detail. It is a question of legislating, prohibiting, persecuting, and condemning something that does not exist. Spain was trying to either absorb or expel a population of “foreigners” who were not foreign, from a country that was not on any map. According to Javier Jiménez-Belmonte (2011, 378), this led to the “gradual expulsion [of gypsies] from civil life and the collapsing of their identity into the same law that condemned them.” Here we arrive at the crux of the matter: identity, or, rather, the awareness of identity. I believe this awareness of identity to be inversely proportional to its possession. One of the challenges of being human, perhaps the most important one, is knowing who we are. We spend a great deal of the time and energy of our lives attempting to learn this, and it takes many of us years. But even if we do not know who we are, the majority of us feel absolutely sure that we know who others are. What is more, we are not only sure of who they are, but what they think, what they feel, what they want, and, above all, how they will react to others and to the various circumstances that life presents. In the same vein, in light of the cliché, one has to choose between being what people expect you to be, and being discriminated against and condemned for being it, or not being anything, by allowing your group identity to be erased. For Quiñones, as for all of the judgment and memorial writers of the seventeenth century, one of the keys to solving the general political crisis was consolidating the empire. To do so, they needed a homogenizing process for all the identities that coexisted in it. From such an ethnocentric perspective, any difference was considered dangerous and one had to try everything to eliminate it. Hence, in this battle over gypsy difference, Quiñones structures his argument around two main issues which are the foundation of the cliché from the seventeenth century to today. Firstly, the negation of any sign of identity. Negation leads to the theory that gypsies belong to a sect (an international conspiracy of all gypsies to rob, swindle and sabotage). Secondly, the dehumanization and consequent bestialization of gypsies, through the creation of an image of the gypsy that lacks any human features. Gypsies are presented as egotistical monsters with no empathy towards others, as suspects, traitors, potential thieves and criminals, capable of all kinds of wickedness; in short, as an authentic social threat, “the gypsy problem.” Let us go back to the text to look for the development of these issues. As for the negation of identity, for Quiñones authentic gypsy identity does not exist. It is all a trick, a criminals’ strategem: the “gypsy sect” that would become famous and that still echoes today in the press, on the radio, and on television. And “affiliation” would become the essential formula that constituted “gypsy society.” Quiñones (1631, fols. 6v-7r) says that language facilitates the trick, and the clothes they wear: but there is no doubt that they were born and raised in these Kingdoms, even if there are those from other nations among them, among those who make up this Gypsy sect, since every day they let in idle, degenerate and incorrigible people, to whom they easily teach their language. Fray Angelo Roca de Camerino writes that these wicked people have faked a language so that no one can understand them, and he has seen the written vocabulary. In Castile it is called jerigonza (Gerigonça), a corruption of the word Gytgonça, which is what they call the Gypsy language, according to Don Sebastián de Covarrubias, Vulcanio and Felipe Camerario. The French call it jargon, the German, Rotwelsch. It is their way of speaking, which all of them use, including women and children, and they understand each other but no one can understand them.

On the origins of images of gypsies39 Their own language and their own clothing would be among the principal prohibitions of the laws governing gypsies for centuries. The question of language is one of the least understood in gypsy culture, despite being one of the most discussed. It is a result, we believe, of the prejudices and lack of scientific rigor that scholars have brought to their studies, with a few honorable exceptions. I believe that the study of the language question is of great importance, not only on a philological and linguistic level, but also because it can give us more objective information on the rest of the issues related to gypsy culture, both diachronically and synchronically, since language, as a form of social behavior, is a fairly neutral, that is, unmanipulated, reflection of social structure and relations. On this point I must state that the language of Spanish gypsies is not nor has ever been a criminals’ jargon. In that vein, in his Introducción a la Lexicografía Julio Casares (1992, 273) says, caló, on the other hand, is a true natural language, the cultural heritage of a scattered people, but who had clearly defined ethnic characteristics, and whose groups live isolated in territories of other languages. Caló, if we disregard the loan words it has taken from these other languages, has a rich vocabulary of its own, a particular system of infixes, prefixes and suffixes and its own grammatical rules, though in some cases, like in conjugation and in some plurals, it adopts foreign inflections.

Spanish and Romany, the gypsy language, have been in contact in Spain since at least the fifteenth century, and these languages in contact have influenced each other, responding to processes of convergence and divergence, giving rise to the gypsyisms in Spanish (loans from caló and Romany), to caló, and to the gypsy variant of Spanish (the particular way Gypsy people speak Spanish). The situation that occurred in Spain, where the languages were in contact, led to SpanishRomany bilingualism. This is different from what occurred in the rest of Europe. In the rest of Europe, the result was diglossia, that is, the coexistence of two languages that remained perfectly separate and distinct, each one of which was used in clearly delineated and exclusive communicative situations, meaning that they did not influence each other. This is the main reason why in the rest of Europe, gypsies maintain Romany, whereas in Spain they do not. None of the other European countries produced a bilingual situation like in Spain, because none of them integrated gypsies and gypsiness into society like in Spain, to such a degree that contact, and therefore influence and mutual enrichment of both cultures and languages, was possible. The main thing that concerns us here is that, through the study of language, we can discern that another reality existed, one that does not fit the cliché of marginality and exclusion, but rather, that shows coexistence, mutual influence, blending, interculturality. Continuing his line of argumentation negating gypsy identity, Quiñones adds another piece of evidence in the lack of their own religion and the way they adjusted “in outward appearance” to the religions of the areas in which they lived: “Some very worthy writers take them for heretics, and many for idolatrous Gentiles, or atheists with no religion, although in outward appearance they adjust to the religion or sect of the Province in which they live, being Turks when around Turks, heretics when around heretics, adapting to any nation” (1631, fol. 13r). In the early seventeenth century, not having a religion that was sufficiently defined, which might justify or explain character traits different from those of Catholics (as, for example, in the case of Jews or crypto-Muslims), was a good argument in favor of the artificiality of gypsy

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identity. The accusation of practicing witchcraft has been used widely by many communities in order to mutually disparage one another. It is a stereotyped accusation, one used with the aim of discrediting one’s enemy or one’s inferior. At that time, in which belief in magic was widespread, a minority ethnic group without a defined religion and with exotic characteristics, which, furthermore, practiced magic in very particular forms (palm reading, curses, etc.) was the ideal candidate to be considered what Caro Baroja (1992) calls a “magic tribe.” This accusation has also been used often and with great success by all those who developed the gypsy cliché, including, of course, Quiñones, who says the following in his address: And so as not to be lacking in any kind of delinquency, they are also enchanters, fortune-tellers, magicians, and palm readers, who tell the future by the lines of one’s hand, which they call fortune (and which I call bad fortune for their clients, since they are either tricking or robbing them). And for the most part they go in for superstition […]. And to judge such things by the lines of one’s hand, as these degenerate people do, or claim to do, is pure superstition and diabolical divination. And if those who practice it ever make a correct prediction, it is because of a secret deal made with the devil, who with great subtlety works their imagination, so that they speak the truth without knowing what they are saying. (1631, fols. 14r & 16r)

In the early seventeenth century, accusations of making deals with the devil and lacking one’s own religion were very serious, but despite that, the civil authorities were much more concerned with the gypsies than the religious authorities were. It is odd that although there were many inquisitorial trials of palm-reading gypsies, there were few heavy sentences. Most of the time, gypsies confessed that it was not a deal with the devil or any kind of witchcraft, but rather, a simple way to make a living, and the Tribunals of the Holy Office of the Inquisition judged them accordingly. It is possible that since gypsies were not considered an influential minority in the political, social, or religious spheres, the hierarchy of the church did not consider the gypsy question to be important (on the Church’s relationship with gypsies, see Sánchez Ortega 1988). As we have seen, according to Quiñones, any sign of gypsy identity is feigned and artificial, from their very name to their physical appearance, their dress, their language, and their religion. He sees the gypsy sect as a cunning strategy for robbing, swindling, and sabotaging the realm. We can see how, unfortunately, many people, including politicians and communications media, still hold this belief. At least it is odd to think that people who lived hand to mouth, whose main priorities would be fleeing and managing to live through various hardships, would have the time and the necessary conditions to develop a conspiracy of this caliber. According to the principle of Ockham’s razor, all else being equal, when there are two theories to explain the same outcome, the simplest theory is probably the correct one. Hence we wonder if the simpler explanation is that gypsies really have a different identity and culture and not that it is all a giant conspiracy to rob and swindle. Now let us discuss the arguments Quiñones offers regarding the second issue: the dehumanization and consequent bestialization of gypsies. On this aspect, Quiñones is especially verbose. He speaks of “bad habits” like inbreeding, polygamy, idolatry, and more. One of the most prominent gypsy clichés in the popular imagination is the kidnapping and sale of children. This longstanding legend adapts perfectly to the bestialization of gypsies that Quiñones sets out to demonstrate, so he does not hesitate to attribute it to them as well. His text reads, “Their robberies have an even wickeder outcome, as worthy authors claim that they have taken stolen children to

On the origins of images of gypsies41 sell on the Barbary Coast” (1631, fol. 8v). This cliché fostered the well-known parental warning: “The gypsies will get you if you don’t behave.” But the pièce de résistance of Quiñones’s dehumanization and bestialization of gypsies is cannibalism. This accusation achieved a dramatic intensity and a rhetorical potential that arbitristas and popular poets did not hesitate to exploit — in chapbooks, for example, which were always open to telling tales of disgrace, calamity, and monstrosity. Quiñones says, And in the year 1629, under torture by Don Martin Fajardo, the judge who was trying them in Jaraicejo, four Gypsies confessed to having killed a Friar of the Order of Saint Francis on the mountain of Las Gamas, in the jurisdiction of the city of Trujillo, and having eaten him. And also a Gypsy woman and a female pilgrim. The Mayor of Montijo told the aforementioned Don Martin Fajardo that a resident of the area, searching the countryside for a lost mare, saw something near Arroyo, and when he entered a ruined house to look for her, he came across some Gypsies, who were roasting a quarter of a human. They also say that a shepherd from Guadix, wandering lost around the Gádor mountains, saw a bonfire, and, thinking it belonged to shepherds, went toward it and happened upon a gang of gypsies who were roasting half a man, and the other half was hanging from a tree, and when they saw him, they told him to take a seat by the fire and dine with them, but to themselves they were saying, that one’s nice and fat, and then, pretending to go to bed, he hurled himself down the mountain and escaped their clutches. In the port of Ohanes, in the Sierra Nevada, some Gypsies also killed a boy and ate him. It is nothing less than what the Caribs of the West Indies did, who ate human flesh. (1631, fols. 10v–11r)

Quiñones uses another already established myth: that of the Native American cannibal, to lend weight to his argument. In his magnificent article “Monstruos de ida y vuelta: Gitanos y caníbales en la máquina antropológica barroca,” Javier Jiménez-Belmonte (2011, 388) says, indigenous peoples had become the natural habitat of the barbaric (cannibalism, incest, polygamy, idolatry) and, by extension, its symbol. The symbol was not simply the sum of text and images, but rather, the unbreakable association of a discourse, its image, the confirmation of sickness and a perennial threat (the periodic manifestation of the devil’s work at the edges of civilization), and the resulting proposal for correction and cure. It is this symbolic character that facilitates the export of the American monster […] to European soil and its application (as image, text and discipline) to similar manifestations of the barbaric […] like in the case of gypsies.

Quiñones lists many cases not just of cannibalism but of eating raw meat, painting gypsies as even more terrible, which explains the almost superstitious dread they provoked in people. A “perennial threat,” the “social threat” requires a strong government that is able to free its people from such a threat. The role of all stigmatized communities is to embody that threat, to fix it in certain individuals, on which the government can exercise its power in order to impose the maintenance of social order. Hence they become scapegoats. Once he has given enough arguments to demonstrate his theory of the monstrous gypsy sect, Quiñones closes his formidable address with a summary of the ordinances and laws against gypsies, not only in Spain but also in the rest of Europe (1631, fols. 16v, 17r–v, 18r–v, 19r–v & 20r), as documented proof of the inefficacy of any measure other than expulsion. To conclude, he finishes his address, as all good arbitristas and memorialistas do, by offering the perfect solution to one of the kingdom’s fundamental problems:

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Since they are useless people, remove them from these Kingdoms, with no consideration for whether they are settled here, because, as Plato says, idle people are like drones with stingers, who trouble whatever city in which they find themselves, like phlegm or choler do to a body. And the good Doctor and Legislator, as much as the careful and diligent farmer who tends his bees, must see to it that they are not born in the city; and if they are born, let them end and be destroyed in diapers. (Quiñones 1631, fol. 23v)

Throughout his address, using all the resources at his disposal, Quiñones attempts to show that gypsies are not people but egotistical and uncivilized monsters. The reference to “settled gypsies” stands out; in fact, the majority of gypsies were settled, and like any other people settled in a municipality, they plied their trade, paid their taxes, and lived in society without any problems. However, for Quiñones, there was no distinction. All gypsies were the same, whether they were settled or not: a scourge on society; a plague that had to be eradicated before it infected all of society. That was the only way to be rid of the “gypsy problem” and it was the duty of those in charge of the kingdom to take any measures necessary to expel them. On this point, I feel it important to note that from the fifteenth century to today — one needs only glance at the press to know it is true — when crisis situations arise in European countries, the perspective that sees gypsies as presenting a “social threat” returns with a vengeance, accompanied by the consequent calls for the need to expel them.

Conclusion After what I have shown in the preceding pages, I believe the following can reasonably be concluded. Juan de Quiñones wrote the Discurso contra los gitanos with the aim of supporting the struggle against cultural diversity, specifically against the difference gypsies represented. This issue was considered a fundamental objective of the consolidation of the empire, which the monarchy of the time was attempting. Hence, anyone who wished to maintain or improve their position in the government of the kingdom had to demonstrate their support for the official stance. By virtue of pure logic, it is more likely that authentic gypsy identity and culture exist than that the so-called “gypsy sect” does. But other than a few honorable exceptions, representations of and references to any subject related to gypsy culture have come from a biased, prejudiced point of view, without scientific rigor or objectivity, as we have seen in Quiñones’ address. This has led to the creation and maintenance of a stereotype that is deeply rooted in our collective memory and consciousness: the cliché of gypsies and gypsiness. Reviewing and reflecting on the myth of gypsies and gypsiness would lead to very interesting conclusions in a number of fields of study, which would constitute a valuable contribution to gypsy, Spanish, European, and universal culture. In these times of globalization, critical awareness of identity and the search for cultural excellence are indispensable. Reviewing and reflecting on the cliché of gypsies and gypsiness, which is without a doubt one of the most marked and known clichés in Spanish culture, through the objective study of historical documents and facts, will be very helpful for understanding the importance of interculturality, and thus, for fostering it. It would also be helpful for highlighting the contribution of gypsy culture to Spanish, European, and universal culture and assisting the development of our awareness of gypsy identity while avoiding a fundamentalist stance.

The others in Golden Age drama Santiago Fernández Mosquera When I began to study the reception of Heliodorus of Emesa’s Aethiopica — a work that is also known as Theagenes and Chariclea — in sixteenth-century Spanish prose (Fernández Mosquera 1997), the best examples of which are Alonso Núñez de Reinoso’s Clareo y Florisea (1552) and Jerónimo de Contreras’s Selva de aventuras (Forest of adventures, 1565), I often pondered the question as to how many of the readers or listeners of these stories, fascinated by the exciting adventures recounted in them, would pay attention to the skin color of the protagonists. Heliodorus refers to the myth of Andromeda to frame the love story of the main protagonists. Chariclea is the white child of the black sovereigns of Ethiopia, Persina and Hidaspes. Chariclea’s whiteness supposedly originates in her parents having gazed at a portrait of Perseus’s liberation of Andromeda at the moment of her conception. Persina abandons her child, fearing for her honor and the reaction of her husband. She ultimately accepts Chariclea, and her child’s unlikely skin color is explained away by a “scientific” reasoning that lays the blame on Persina’s vivid imagination. Persina confesses her rejection of the child at the end of Pedro Calderón de la Barca’s comic rendering of the tale — Los hijos de la fortuna, Teágenes y Cariclea (The children of fortune, Theagenes and Chariclea; c. 1640–50): Persina As he wants it to be known, servants, relations and friends, know that she is my child; that on seeing her born so white, I told others that she was still-born and threw her from me, fearing some terrible suspicion against my honor. Calarisis It was the ignorance of one who has not studied sciences; and although risking life, as now it matters not if it be lost killing a betraying child, and embracing the nobility of another, I Calasiris, I in your honor will sustain that it was the cause of the imaginative force of apprehension.1 1.

“Persina: Pues él quiere que se sepa, / vasallos, deudos y amigos, / sabed que es mi hija; que al verla / nacer tan blanca, diciendo / que había nacido muerta, / la eché de mí, por temer / alguna infame sospecha / contra mi honor. // Calasiris: Fue ignorancia / de quien no ha estudiado ciencias; / y aunque aventure la vida, / pues ya no importa perderla, / dando muerte a un traidor hijo, / y abrazando la nobleza / de otro, yo soy Calasiris, / y de tu honor en defensa / sustentaré que hace caso / la imaginativa fuerza / de la aprensión” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 463; 3; my translation). doi 10.1075/chlel.29.05mos © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Santiago Fernández Mosquera

44

This force of imaginative apprehension that caused the miracle in Persina’s womb on her viewing the painting will be recalled in the comedy as follows: Persina

Sacred Andromeda, whom I from my earliest years venerated so, that I never let your divine portrait escape from my eyes, even in the hours in which I was absent, you were engraved in my mind, and your breath was more lifelike in my mind, receive the vows with which you are acclaimed by all, as you are2

This strange anecdote, which was often explained away by scientific justifications, ultimately evokes the themes of infidelity and injured honor, problems that are exacerbated by the racial characteristics of the characters, but, in another sense, it also allows an exotic, literary setting for the protagonism of those who were at the margins of society. The protagonism of racial others needs to be examined carefully, as not all others are treated equally, even if they all share a position of alterity. Some, such as Jews, Marranos, Basques, and Galicians are treated harshly in the literature of the period. Their marginalization appears in Golden Age comedy, as well as in the prose. This marginalization can be mitigated by a certain type of maurophilia, or in the description of the nobility of the Araucano Indians, but I am not aware, for example, of a positive comedic description of the Galician character. Furthermore, Golden Age literature, and more specifically, comedy, tends towards superficial characterization: others are defined simply in terms of their manner of speaking and their comedic potential. We do not come to know their self-understanding as Black, Moorish, etc. — they are simply masked figures who adopt their given role and function. Similarly, Greeks and Roman characters, and even their mythic figures, behave in the manner of the courtly gentlemen of the aristocratic century in which the works were written. For all that, and beyond their exoticism and racial features, features that are sometimes forgotten in reading the texts, the supposed stereotypical behavior of black and Indian characters is not a central part of action. This, in my view, explains why in the Byzantine stories the reader/listener gradually forgets the race and color of the protagonists. Paradoxically, however, in comedies the color of the skin and exotic clothing (and even the voice and gesture, if they are burlesque characters) of Ethiopians and Indians are foregrounded. The public would have, from the first moment, a clear idea of the different origins of each character, notwithstanding dramatic tricks with disguises, veils, or disappearances. This foregrounding of the physical differences of

2.

“Persina: Sacra Andrómeda, a quien yo / desde mis tiernas niñeces / tanto veneré, que nunca / te perdí de vista en ese / divino retrato tuyo, / pues aun las horas que ausente / te falté, en mi mente estaban / tan grabadas tus especies, / que más viva que tu aliento / te me pintaba mi mente, / admite el voto con que / todos te aclaman, pues eres” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 436; 3).

The others in Golden Age drama45 the characters distances them from the public that attends the work, though this distanciation is, obviously, mitigated for readers of the comedies. It is important to recall here that black characters were almost always played by white actors. As María Jesús Franco (1999, 594) notes: the theatre of the Golden Age often takes the black characters from their original context, in this case Ethiopia, and represents them through the mediation of white actors. There are sufficient testimonies to indicate that the absence of black actors meant that the white actors who took on these roles painted their hands and faces and constantly alluded, through a wide variety of metaphors and metonyms, to the color of their skin. There is nothing genuinely African about the black characters in the literature of the Golden Age; they are fabricated from the preconceived images that the author or the public had of the peoples of Africa.

The investigations of Baltasar Fra Molinero (1995) seem to confirm the presence of at least one important black actor in the Spain of the Golden Age, but we reserve judgment on these interesting findings. It is not that this indifference in the comedies to the portrayal of supposed racial characteristics implies a belief in racial equality. It is in fact the dramatic superstructure that means that black or Indian characters behave in the manner of individuals from the Spanish seventeenth century. This is also the case in the representation of figures like Hercules and Ulysses, or of many of the saints of the hagiographic comedies. In the theatre of the Golden Age all characters, whether Theagenes, Don Alonso, Circe, or Chariclea, behave in accordance with the generic expectations of the comedic form. This superstructure also determines the verisimilitude of the stage settings that present mythical spaces as contemporary palaces or, as in Calderón’s Los hijos de la fortuna, that a fight between bandits can be described metonymically by the sound of gunshots: “Between the two they take her and go. Off-stage a pistol is fired, and enter Tiamis, the gallant bandit.”3 The conventions of the dramatic genre exceed preoccupations with verisimilitude, but this is not a major problem. In fact, not even the fastidious Vera Tassis — as the editor of Calderón’s works — changes this incoherent stage direction. More important in its implications is the ideological perspective of the poet, who, inevitably, is a creature of his time. Calderón, though respecting his African characters in their condition as aristocrats, still upholds a value system in which white skin is superior to black. This is reflected in Hidaspes’s self-introduction, in which he tells us of his nobility: I am Hidaspes, from Ethiopia a noble Satrap, who for nobility of blood and ancestry few can match.4

3.

“Llévanla entre los dos, y vanse. Disparan dentro unas pistolas, y sale Tíamis, bandolero galán” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 361; 1).

4.

“Idaspes soy, de Etiopía / noble sátrapa, que altivo / por la sangre y el caudal, / hay pocos iguales míos” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 1, 356–57; 1).

Santiago Fernández Mosquera

46 He also tells us how he encountered Chariclea: One morning, at dawn going to see my flocks, I found among jazmine and laurels — she who, like Venus was gently shaded by the myrtle — wrapped in beautiful robes of gold and silk, at the foot of a cliff, a small bundle, shining with brilliant rays of sunflowers, astonished and amazed me all at once. I move towards her, and among the rich remains of that cliff — whose signs, which spoke to me then, and from now will speak to you — the white beauty I see of a new-born child, by whose light I was immediately provoked to the reasoning of natural syllogism. “If in Ethiopa she was born,” I said, “where the rays of blazing summer sun color the complexion of its children.5

The metaphors here imply a greater value for white as opposed to black skin: How so white? When has there been seen in the world white ermined stoats fed in the nests of crows?6

If Chariclea comes from “a nest of crows” it is clear that for the speaker, an Ethiopian noble, her ermine white skin is of greater value than the dark skin of his compatriots. These incoherencies should be understood within the context of the seventeenth century Spanish worldview, and one should not be surprised that for the poet, and for the spectators, these views seemed natural. 5.

“Una mañana, al aurora / saliendo a ver los ejidos / de mis ganados, hallé / entre jazmines y lirios / —a quien, como árbol de Venus, / hacía blanda sombra un mirto— , / envuelto en bellos cendales / de oro y seda, al pie de un risco, / pequeño bulto, que a rayos / de tornasoles y visos / brillando, me deslumbraba / y alumbraba a un tiempo mismo. / A reconocerle llego, / y entre esos despojos ricos / de esa faja —cuyas cifras, / si hablaron allá conmigo, / desde hoy hablarán con vos— , / la blanca hermosura miro / de recién nacida infante, / a cuya luz de improviso / me asaltaron las razones / de un natural silogismo. / ‘Si en Etiopía nacida’, / dije, ‘donde los estivos / rayos del sol más ardientes / tiñen la tez de sus hijos’” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 356–57; 1).

6.

“¿cómo tan blanca? / ¿De cuándo acá en el mundo se ha visto / que en los nidos de los cuervos / se alimenten los armiños?” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 356–57; 1).

The others in Golden Age drama47 Similarly, Chariclea’s position as a white slave is represented as shocking to the black characters in the play, even if it does not seem strange that Ethiopian nobles would have white slaves: Tisbe

How did it come about that a slave be sold in Ethiopia of such little means that, whereas black slaves serve their white mistresses, she, a white, serves a black mistress?7

These lines, interestingly, give rise to Termutes’s Cervantine jest, which plays on the double meaning of mancha in the sense of “mark, blemish” and the geographical area of La Mancha from which the mad knight sets forth: Termutes

That will not happen on my account, as I am such a servant of ladies that if there were a Mancha in Egypt, it’s clear that it would fall to me to be the Quijote of that Mancha8

The racist elements of these jokes are always evident, and occasionally the comedy is engineered so that these racist undertones can be dramatically justified, as when in one scene the comic character Jebnón appears in his underwear, and what appears to be his black skin turns out to be due not to his race (he is Greek), but to his filthiness: Jebnón appears naked Jebnón Admeta Jebnón

Who calls? Who are you? A poor devil

(Here the complications start.)

who some bandits, after having beaten him left in the state you see now in his black white clothes9.

If comedy, as we have argued, requires unequivocal visual racial categorizations of the characters, it also uses identical resources in terms of narration, with specific linguistic and personality traits used to mark the provenance of each character.

7.

“¿Qué ha de llevar una esclava / que va vendida a Etiopía, / con fortuna tan escasa / que, si otras como unas negras / sirven a sus blancas amas, / ella a una ama negra va / a servir como una blanca?” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 368–69; 1).

8.

“Eso no será en mis días, / que soy servidor de damas / tanto, que si Mancha hubiera/en Egipto, es cosa clara / que a mí me tocara ser / el Quijote de esa Mancha” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 1, 368–69; 1).

9.

“Jebnón: ¿Quién llama? // Admeta: ¿Quién eres? // Jebnón: Un pobre diablo // (Empiece aquí la maraña) // a quien unos bandoleros, / después que a palos le matan, le han dejado como ves, / en su negra ropa blanca” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 370–71; 1).

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48

In Los hijos de la fortuna these identifying traits are relatively frequent in the first jornada (act), are almost absent from the second, and reappear, with lesser impact, in the third. This distribution indicates their increasing redundancy. We will now describe some of these racial indicators. Already in the listing of the dramatis personae the characterization is evident. They appear as such in the text: Cariclés, old man Calasiris, old man Nausiclés, merchant Tisbe, slave Idaspes, Indian, Black Cariclea, Lady, Indian Persina, Queen of Egypt, Indian, Black Captain and Soldiers Tíamis, gallant bandit Termutes, bandit Jebnón, comic bandit Petosiris, gallant young man, brother of Tíamis Teágenes, gallant young man Three Walkers Admeta, queen of Menfis Libio, Theagenes’s servant Ladies of Admeta Nymphs of Apollo, musicians Servants of Persina, musicians, Indians, Black Women Musicians, bandits and Soldiers. (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 342)

We should highlight here: Idaspes, Indian, Black Cariclea, Lady, Indian Persina, Queen of Ethiopia, Indian, Black Servants of Persina, musicians, Indians, Black Women.

The stage directions, too, indicate the racial identity of the characters. Idaspes is described as a “black Ethiopian”: “Idaspes, black Ethiopian, and Chariclea, with her face covered by a veil.”10 In other stage directions, explicit mention is made of characters’ status as Ethiopian, Indian, or Black: They sleep. Inside there is singing and enter Black Indian musicians, and Persina, crying.11 They exit. Drums, and enter as many Ethiopians as possible — men, women, and musicians — followed by Persina and Idaspes with flares.12

10.

“Idaspes, etíope negro, y Cariclea, cubierto el rostro con un velo” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 1, 343; 1).

11.

“Duérmese. Cantan dentro, y salen músicas indias negras, y Persina, llorando” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 350; 1).

12.

“Vanse. Cajas, y salen marchando todos los que puedan de etíopes, hombres y mujeres, músicos, luego Persina y Idaspes con bengalas” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 435; 3).

The others in Golden Age drama49 Drums, and enter Hidaspes with Admeta, Tiamis and Petosiris, Persina and Chariclea, and all the accompanying Ethiopians and Gypsies, Theagenes and Jebnón.13

The stage directions referring to characterization are not very frequent, and one should remember that these indicators are concentrated within the first jornada: Tisbe (Who would have said, my Jebnón, that your Tisbe would be given to blacks) Nausiclés Come. Tisbe If that has been your attempt, to take from Ethiopia your lead, that austere Indian can inform you better than anyone. Nausiclés On seeing him I am amazed that in Delphi, as I have heard, it has been decreed that no Ethiopian resides in its domain I do not know the cause of this; and as I am bound for Memphis I cannot inform myself. Come, Tisbe.14 Cariclés Who are you and what do you want from me gallant Ethiopian Indian? Who are you, and what do you want from me distinguished pilgrim? You come to me as if in a dream and I still don’t know whether I wake or sleep.15 Cariclés Now you are alone. Tell me what you desire, as I am open to talk, not knowing what could have brought you, an Ethiopian, here to me, 13.

“Caja, y salen Idaspes con Admeta, Tíamis con Petosiris, Persina con Cariclea, y todo el acompañamiento de etíopes y gitanos, Teágenes y Jebnón” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 460; 3).

14.

“Tisbe: (¿Quién/te dijera, ¡ay, Jebnón mío!, / ir tu Tisbe dada a negros?) // Nausiclés: Ven. // Tisbe: Si ése tu intento ha sido, / para tomar de Etiopía / el rumbo, ese adusto indio / podrá informarte mejor / que nadie. // Nausiclés: Al verle me admiro / en Delfos, por el decreto / que aquestos días he oído, / de que etíope ninguno / quede en todos sus distritos. / La causa no sé; y pues tengo / mi pasaje prevenido / por Menfis, no hay que informarme. / Ven, Tisbe (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 1, 346–47; 1).

15.

“Cariclés: ¿Quién eres, y qué me quieres, / gallardo etíope indio? / ¿Qué me quieres, y quién eres, / venerable peregrino? / Que a los asombros de un sueño / concurrís tan sucesivos, / que todavía aún no sé / si estoy despierto u dormido” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 352; 1).

Santiago Fernández Mosquera

50 at a time in which there is an edict forbidding Ethiopians entry to Delphi, due to the wars between Ethiopia and Egypt.16

On one occasion the characterization directly evokes Heliodorus as source when Hidaspes describes the inhabitants of Ethiopia as “tostados sus moradores” (toasted dwellers). Persina of Ethiopia, whose high mountains take from the sun its first lights, its fiery rage toasting its inhabitants, a phoenix of the sun which burns and then from the very smoke of its coals marks itself, health, lady, I wish you17

In the Spanish edition from 1614 of Heliodorus’s Historia aethiopica — and it is worth noting this minor detail — the Egyptians are referred to as “hombres negros y tostados” (Heliodoro 1614, fol.4r; black and toasted men), while in the first Spanish edition, published in Amberes by Martín Nucio in 1554, the phrase is translated as “sin que la color destos hombres negros y quemados” (Heliodoro 1554, fol. 12r; without the color of those black and burnt men). Exoticism is also extended to the description of Chariclea’s clothing, who, a Greek priestess in Ethiopia, appears doubly strange both because of her whiteness and because of her apparel: Admeta Cariclea Nausiclés

Strange woman and strange dress! Who are you? She who places life, honour, and soul at your feet, certain that if you hear her these murders and violences will not be carried out. She is a slave of mine, my lady, who with suppositions18

The exoticism of Ethiopia is also referred to in the characterization of its written language.

16.

“Cariclés: Ya estáis solo. Decid vos / qué queréis, que discursivo / me tenéis, porque no sé / qué puede haberos movido, / siendo etíope, a buscarme / en ocasión que hay edicto / de que ninguno entre en Delfos, / a causa de haber sabido / las guerras que allá se mueven / entre etíopes y egipcios (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 353–54; 1).

17.

“Persina, pues, de Etiopía, / cuyos altos montes rayan / del sol las primeras luces, / a cuya encendida saña / tostados sus moradores, / tan fénix del sol se abrasan / que, carbones de su hoguera, / a su mismo humo se manchan, / salud, señora, os envía” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 2, 401; 2).

18.

“Admeta: ¡Extraña mujer, y extraño / traje! ¿Quién eres? // Cariclea: Quien pone / vida, honor y alma a estos pies, / segura que si la oyes, / ni esas muertes se ejecuten, / ni estas violencias se logren. // Nausiclés: Una esclava mía, señora, / es, que con suposiciones” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 2, 428; 2).

The others in Golden Age drama51 Cariclés But with shame I must confess, they were written in the figures and letters of their strange language, which I do not understand; I have not read them as I do not know what they might contain, and it is imprudence to entrust a secret to someone who might later make me regret my confidence. Calasiris The letters are Ethiopian, and phrase too Ethiopian it is.19

But what draws most attention in these adjectival phrases is the use of the words indio or indio negro (black Indian). The term indio associated with negro is very infrequent, and the oddness of this coupling meant that the editor of the work, Don Cruickshank, opted to separate them with a comma that is perhaps unnecessary. This punctuation is not applied in the Tercera Parte of 1664, or in the Vera Tassis of 1687, although it does appear in the edition of 1726. More importantly, the word indio does not appear in MS. Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, 17.351 of the comedy, although the first stage direction contains (and repeats) the characterization of “Ydaspes, etíope negro” (Hidaspes, black Ethiopian). Moreover, neither the original work in its distinct translations, nor its most direct antecedent, Pérez de Montalbán’s comedy, Teágenes y Cariclea, published in the second volume of his works in 1638, contains the term indio. What is the origin of the use of the terms negro or etíope that were traditionally employed to refer to black characters of African origin? One should not forget that the plot of the comedy requires the presence of characters from Egypt that in many cases are called gitanos (gypsies), but are located in the same geographical area as referred to in the Byzantine text. The hypothesis could be made that the term indio refers to a European racial distinction of the time that distinguished between the inhabitants of West Africa and those of East Africa, the latter being considered more “oriental.” However, the phrase “gallardo etíope indio” (gallant Ethiopian Indian) complicates this interpretation by including “Ethiopian,” as does the description of Chariclea, who is not black, as a “dama india” (Indian lady). The term indio is used, therefore, in more of a cultural or geographical than a racial sense. The allusion to an indio negro (black Indian) reflects a common misunderstanding both of the origin of the Egyptians as well as Egypt’s geographical dimensions, the Kingdom of Prester John, and India. This confusion is well illustrated in the work by Luis de Urreta — Historia eclesiástica, política, natural y moral de los grandes y remotos reinos de la Etiopía (Ecclesiastical, political, natural, and moral history of the great and remote kingdoms of Ethiopia), published in Valencia in 1610. This work includes data, not always reliable, on the location and origin of its inhabitants (for another Spanish vision of Ethiopia during the seventeenth century, see Páez 2014). 19.

“Cariclés: pero hasta esto con vergüenza / os habré de confesar, / escrito en cifras y letras / de su extraño idioma, que / no entiendo; y no he dado a leerlas, / porque no sé lo que pueden / contener, y es imprudencia / fiar secreto de quien luego/me ha de pesar que le sepa. // Calasiris: Las letras son etiopisas, / y aun también el frase de ellas / etíope es” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 388; 2).

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52

Urreta, taking from the Scriptures and classical authors, distinguishes between two Ethiopias: the East, which is Arabian, and the West, which is Abyssinian. He claims too that “muchos de los rabinos también conceden estas dos Etiopías […] Algunos doctores fundados en la Escritura quieren que la India Oriental desde Goa hasta la China se llame también Etiopía” (Urreta 1610, 11; Many of the rabbis also make the case for two Ethiopias […] Some doctors of Scripture make the case that all of Western India from Goa to China should also be called Ethiopia). Later in the text he justifies the identification of Ethiopia and India with a translation from Chaldean: And leaving aside what many wise men say about this place (Isaiah, Chap. 18), because of their difficulty and the fact that their declarations do not serve my purpose, and take instead the Chaldean statement which places Ethiopia in the place of India, as the prophet Sophonias writes in his third chapter: ultra flumina Aethiopia. The Chaldean argues that the rivers of Ethiopia are the Indus and the Ganges, two of the most famous of East India.20

And he adds two other sources to support his opinion. Eusebio says that the Ethiopians came from the lands around the river Indus and that, entering Africa, populated Ethiopia, which is below Egypt. But to this it is responded that in Ethiopia, of which Isaiah and Sophonias speak, Arabian is spoken. Although it would be better to respond that though East Ethiopia is taken as Arabia and West Ethiopia as Abyssinia, they are both termed the Indias, and that this is the most usual way that historians refer to Ethiopia, as opposed to calling India East Ethiopia.21

The matter is complicated when he cites classical authors and applies their worldviews to the new discoveries of the West Indies: Virgil takes India to be Ethiopia. Herodotus argues that great movements of people left West India and marched towards the sunset, eventually reaching Ethiopia, and for this reason it is called Indian Ethiopia. Aristotle and Seneca, among others, argued that India was close to Spain, and that India and Ethiopia were geographically close to each other, and that that part of India that we take to be Ethiopia, and which we call the Indies, is called such because the pilot of the ship that first landed there under storm conditions saw these unknown lands and named them the Indias. This explains why even today we call the Ethiopians Indians and why their college in Rome is called Saint Stephen of the Indians.22 20. “Y dejando lo mucho que muchos y muy doctos varones dicen sobre este lugar [Isaías, cap. 18], por ser muy dificultoso y tener varias declaraciones que no hace[n] a mi propósito, pero hace fuerza la paráfrasis caldea la cual vierte en lugar de Etiopía India, como consta del profeta Sofonías que en el capítulo tercero dice: ultra flumina Aethiopia. El caldeo vierte India […] los ríos de la Etiopía serán el río Indo y el Ganges, que son los dos más famosos de la India Oriental” (Urreta 1610, 11). 21.

“Dice que los etíopes salieron de las tierras junto al río Indo y que, entrando en el África, poblaron la Etiopía que está bajo Egipto. Pero a esto se responde que por la Etiopía, de la cual hablan Isaías y Sofonías en los lugares citados, se entienda la Arabia. Aunque más fácilmente y mejor se responderá diciendo que así la Etiopía Oriental que se llama Arabia como la Occidental que es la tierra de los abisinios, entrambas se llaman Indias; y es más común modo de hablar entre los historiadores que no llamar a la India Oriental Etiopía” (Urreta 1610, 11).

22. “Virgilio por la India entiende Etiopía. Herodoto dice que salieron de la India Oriental muy grandes compañías de gente y que caminando hacia poniente llegaron a la África y poblaron Etiopía; y que de su nombre

The others in Golden Age drama53 But, finally, the matter can be summed up: Given that there are two Ethiopias, the East which is Arabian, and the West which is the land of Prester John below Egypt, in this book we will not speak of the Arabian Ethiopia, but of the Ethiopia that is more commonly named African Ethiopia, the Empire and Monarchy of the Abyssinians.23

For that reason, the term “Indian” applied to Ethiopians is not as strange as it seems, given the Western tradition (we recall here Urreta’s phrase, “even today we call the Ethiopians Indians”), and the way Calderón applies his erudition to characterization, especially when these characters are placed in a Byzantine setting. Taking into account, therefore, the level of knowledge that at that time Calderón might have had of these characters and their provenance and, more precisely, the remote region in which the story of Theagenes and Chariclea unfurls, the racial description of the characters as “black Indians,” which today seems contradictory, is perfectly justified. This explanation should be complemented from another perspective. The text of the comedy, published in Calderón’s Tercera Parte (Third part), and that of the manuscript seem to originate from a common archetype, as indicated by Don Cruikshank. Perhaps this lost origin proceeds from a manuscript of the company or takes from some elements of these sources. This hypothesis is backed up by the nature of some of the stage directions, for example: A curtain is drawn, and what the verses say is seen24 They Exit. Drums, and exit as many Ethiopians as possible — men, women, and musicians — followed by Persina and Idaspes with flares25 This battle can be staged while each announce their verses, and if this is not appropriate, off-stage; and Persina and Chariclea exit fighting26

Allusions of this type appeal directly to the representational possibilities of the comedy, and also to authorial decision. The term “Indian” implies a traditional and erudite understanding of geography, revealed in application to both black characters and to white Ethiopians such as Chariclea, and reflects the confusion of geography and myth that informs the understanding of this region of Africa. The characters’ provenance is evoked in their exotic dress: we know Chariclea is Indian

se llamó la Etiopía India; y por eso dijeron muchos, como Aristóteles y Séneca, que la India estaba cerca de España y no hay otra más cerca que la Etiopía y de la India que es la Etiopía se llamaron nuestras Indias porque o iba o venía de la Etiopía la carabela que con tiempo forzoso aportó a ellas; y como el piloto viese aquellas tierras nuevas llamolas Indias y aun hoy en día a los etíopes llamamos indios y al Colegio que tienen en Roma le nombran San Esteban de los Indianos” (Urreta 1610, 11). 23.

Supuesto que hay dos Etiopías, la Oriental que es la Arabia y la de Poniente que es la tierra del Preste Juan bajo Egipto, en este libro no hablamos de la Etiopía que es la Arabia, sino de la Etiopía que en rigor y más comúnmente se nombra Etiopía en la África, imperio y monarquía de los abisinios (Urreta 1610, 11–12).

24. “Córrese una cortina, y vese lo que dicen los versos” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 406; 2). 25. “Vanse. Cajas, y salen marchando todos los que puedan de etíopes, hombres y mujeres, músicos, luego Persina y Idaspes con bengalas” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 435; 3). 26. “Esta batalla se puede hacer saliendo con sus versos cada uno, y si no pareciere, dentro; y salen riñendo Persina y Cariclea” (Calderón de la Barca 2007, 455; 3).

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because of her clothes and make-up, and we can identify Hidaspes as a “gallant Ethiopian Indian” because of his extravagant costume. The attempt by an author of comedies to bring to the boards serious black characters not playing the role of buffoon usually reserved for racial others meant that the author had to invent characters that were both noble and exotic. From the first moment they had to show that though black, they were of aristocratic lineage, and that this status was more significant than racial stereotypes. To describe a character as “black Indian,” then, remits to an understanding of geographic origin based on a knowledge of Western tradition, but ultimately it is the conventions of comedic representation and not the thematic description of the character that determine a real understanding of the piece. Proof of this is that in written works or editions of the piece this element is lost, with modern editors, for example, separating with commas and using synonymous words while in the original one word modified the other — the term “Indian” modified “Ethiopian” and brought to mind an almost mythical geographical space, but was allied to a contemporary characterization of the black characters. This small contribution to the comprehension of the place of black characters in seventeenth-century Spanish theatre may seem trivial, but I believe that it does reveal the subtlety required to represent exotic black characters in the comedy of the time, and the ways in which the author overcame the expectations of audiences, allowing them to better understand his dramatic intention. Black, Ethiopian, Indian, and Gypsy characters all find a place in Calderón’s Los hijos de la fortuna, coming together to form a comedic spectacle of Byzantine adventures that was bound to scandalize an audience avid for action and exoticism, and who had already read in books versions of what they would later enjoy on the stage.

Images of the “condemned” Europeans in the satiric works of Francisco de Quevedo Irene Bertuzzi By the end of the sixteenth century, the Spanish monarchy was the main military and political power in Europe. The empire which Philip II of Habsburg left at his death, in 1598, included the Spanish possessions in the Indies, Portugal, the Low Countries, and the states of Naples, Sicily, and Milan in the Italian territory. The consolidation of the Spanish Empire had taken place throughout a period marked by the emergence of early-modern European states, a process which was accompanied by the strengthening of a national identity awareness: “Europe […] was becoming a modular system of separate states, each with a recognizable territory, language, and profile. And by the same token, cultural thought on the diversity of the world was beginning to systematize” (Leerssen 2006, 55). This transformation coincided with the states’ fight for expansion and the fragmentation of the Christian world caused by the Reformation. Thus, as the new century began, the states grew apart because of religious divisions, while they clashed in pursuing common interests in both European and American territories. In such a scenario, the Spanish monarchy, holding a dominant but unstable position in both continents, had to face the struggle with its neighboring states to maintain its supremacy. In the Castilian literature of the time, this situation led, among other things, to the presence of a considerable number of images of other Europeans, especially of those who were directly involved in the policy of the monarchy: French, Germans, English, and the inhabitants of Italy and the Netherlands. It is no surprise, then, to find numerous references to these foreigners in the literature of Francisco de Quevedo, who was not only one of the most relevant writers of his times but also one of its most representative personalities. Furthermore, he was very active in the political and intellectual field. Lía Schwartz explains that apparently Quevedo adopted the guiding role which the new humanists usually attributed to themselves, choosing the satura to educate the monarchical elite in the values of the individual and political ethic of Neostoicism (2000, 246). She also points out that, like the new humanists, the author built models of conduct in his doctrinal texts, while he used his satire to attack the deviations from these models, mocking and condemning the foolishness and meanness of men (246). Foreigners were often seen as representative of such deviations, especially when they were believed to be enemies of Spain, and for this reason Quevedo condemned them in his satirical works. The analysis of the images of Europeans in Quevedo’s satire has shown that they can be divided into two main categories: in the first place, common and simple stereotypes, employed with the main purpuse of obtaining a laugh, and, secondly, more elaborate images, related to the historical context and in line with the growing political commitment of the author. In the images of the first kind, the foreigners are usually associated with vices; thus, in Sueño de la muerte (The dream of death), when complaining about the decadence of the habits of Spanish people, the marquis of Villena exclaims: “Honorable were the Spanish when they could call the

doi 10.1075/chlel.29.06ber © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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foreigners whores and drunken.”1 Likewise, in the poem “Cansado estoy de la corte…” (I am tired of the court) the author complains that the Spanish drink as much as the Germans (1970, 515, ll85–89). The native-foreigner binary was one of the components of Baroque thought: in the words of the marquis’ character, for example, foreigners serve as anti-models for the Spanish, who are exhorted to pursue virtue instead of falling into those vices which were commonly attributed to the others. However, in general, Quevedo seems to employ these popular stereotypes mainly to produce hilarity: for example, in El alguacil endemoniado (The bedevilled constable), he constructs the following chiasmus, pronounced by a devil, which is based on the stereotye of Italians as sodomites: “give the devil an Italian and the devil won’t take him, because there will be an Italian who will take the devil.”2 The idea that Italians were given to the practice of sodomy was common in the Spain of the time and can be found in various literary works: for instance, in the note to his edition of Sueños y discursos (Dreams and discourses, also known as the Visions), James O. Crosby mentions Mateo Alemán’s Guzmán (1993, 1083), while Herrero García quotes lines by Pérez de Montalbán and Góngora, among others (1966, 349–52). In the seventeenth century, Italy was a land of city-states, and some stereotypes existed which were associated with the inhabitants of Italy in general, but some others were linked to specific peoples of the Peninsula. When Quevedo decides to give the name Calabrés (Calabrian) to the character of the cleric in El alguacil endemoniado, his choice is not casual, but based on the general negative reputation that the Calabrians had in that period (testified to in many literary texts of the time, such as Lope de Vega’s La Dorotea, 2011, 80, 2.1), which can be traced back to the fifteenth century (see Crosby’s note to the edition of Sueños y discursos, 1993, 1047). By naming his character in this way, the author adds a pejorative note to the already sarcastic description he offers of his character. Additionally, in Sueño de la muerte Quevedo mentions the Portuguese among the group that accompanies “death for love” (“muerte de amores”), together with Pyramus and Thisbe, Hero and Leander, and the poet Macías (2003a, 411). The reference to their presence in this group is ironic: the Portuguese were considered to be prone to falling in love — another stereotype which was common at the time, as its presence in various texts shows: it can be found, for example, in authors such as Pedro Calderón de la Barca and Luis Vélez de Guevara (Herrero García, 167–78). Quevedo himself employs it elsewhere; for instance, in his poem “Pues ya los años caducos…” (The already decaying years), he makes a reference to the “Portuguese tenderness” (1971, 126 & l81; las ternuras portuguesas). In the cases referred to so far, what causes the amusement of the reader is the familiarity of the images created: images work, obtain their effectivenes in the cultural and communicative field, primarly because of their intertextual tropicality. They are tropes, commonplaces, obtain familiarity by dint of repetition and mutual resemblance; and in each case this means that whenever we encounter an individual instance of a national characterization, the primary reference is not to empirical reality but to an intertext, a sounding-board, of their related textual instances. (Leerssen 2007a, 26)

1.

“Honrados eran los españoles cuando podían decir deshonestos y borrachos a los extranjeros” (2003a, 422). All translations are my own.

2.

“dais al diablo un italiano y no le toma el diablo, porque hay italiano que tomará al diablo” (2003a, 264).

Images of the “condemned” Europeans in the satiric works of Francisco de Quevedo57 More elaborate images work in the same way, although here the tone of the author seems to become more moralistic than satirical, his aim being something more than the mere diversion of his readers. The coexistence of different kinds of images can be observed in the series of Sueños y discursos and in La Fortuna con seso y la Hora de todos (Fortune in her wits and the Hour of all men). The Lucian tradition from which these works draw inspiration is shown, among other things, in the alternation of funny passages with serious ones, and of sections of theoretical pondering together with others containing no idealogy at all (Rey 2003, xxxi–xxxii). These two moods are reflected in the tone of the images that Quevedo creates. Normally, the more elaborate images correspond to a more dramatic tone, as can be appreciated by comparing the following two passages, both concerning the Genoese and taken from Sueño de la muerte: I say it because of the scribes and the Genoese, and these fly with quills, but with the money ahead of them3 […] Son, the Genoese are scrofulas of money, an illness caused by dealing with cats; and that they are scrofulas is demostrated by the fact that it is only the money that goes to France that doesn’t allow any Genoese in its trade. Do I have to go out, with those impetigos of bags on the streets? […] “Sir Necromancer — I replied — even though it is so, having wealth, they have started to suffer as knights do, falling into corruption like gentlemen, and getting ill like princes, and with this and the expenses and loans, the goods get moth-eaten and everything comes to be shared out in debts and madness and the devil commands that the whores sell their royal incomes, because they fool, sicken, charm and rob them, and afterwards they get inherited by the Treasury Counsel. The truth slims down but doesn’t break, in this it is made known that the Genoese aren’t the truth, because they slim down and break.4

In the texts which form Sueños y discursos, the author refers to the Genoese on various occasions, making them his favorite target among the foreigners. The Genoese are always represented in their role of merchants and bankers and characterized by a dreadful greed. In the passages quoted above they are depicted as thieves (the words “fly” [“volar”] and “cats” [“gatos”] are used in their common meaning as well as in the meaning they had in criminals’ slang, respectively “to steal” and “thieves”) and dishonest people, constantly in pursuit of money. In the first passage, the idea is straightforward and simple, while in the second it is richer in details. The quoted texts show, with little variation (as for example the reference to the Genoese’s affection for women, another popular stereotype of the time, see Herrero García 369–72), the image of the Genoese that Quevedo offers throughout his satirical works, for the simple reason that this is how he imagined them in relation to the interests of the Spanish monarchy. The relationship between the 3.

“Dígolo por los escribanos y ginoveses, y estos nos vuelan con las plumas, mas el dinero delante” (Quevedo 2003a, 435).

4.

“Hijo mío, los ginoveses son lamparones del dinero, enfermedad que procede de tratar con gatos; y vese que son lamparones porque solo el dinero que va a Francia no admite ginoveses en su comercio. ¿Salir tenía yo, andando esos usagres de bolsas por las calles? […].” “Señor nigromántico —repliqué yo—, aunque esto es ansí, han dado en adolecer de caballeros en teniendo caudal, úntanse de señores y enferman de príncipes, y con esto y los gastos y empréstitos, se apolilla la mercancía y se viene todo a repartir en deudas y locuras y ordena el demonio que las putas vendan las rentas reales dellos, porque los engañan, los enferman, los enamoran, los roban, y después los hereda el Consejo de Hacienda. La verdad adelgaza y no quiebra: en esto se conoce que los ginoveses no son verdad, porque adelgazan y quiebran” (Quevedo 2003a, 420).

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Spanish monarchy and the Republic of Genoa had begun in the first half of the sixteenth century; since then, the republic had supplied the monarchy with a system of credit, necessary to sustain its military efforts. The image that Quevedo constructs echoes the accusations made against the Genoese by the arbitristas and members of the Cortes of Castile, who blamed them for the bankruptcy of the kingdom, due to the high interest on their credit (Herrero Sánchez 2005, 12). As he does in case of the Genoese, in his satire the author seems to depict the Europeans according to the relationship of alterity that they mantained with Spain, characterizing them only with those traits that, during the first half of the seventeenth century, made them a menace to the interests of the Empire: Throughout these years, the principal objectives of Spain’s policy remained unchanged: the maintenance of the Catholic cause, the defence of the dynastic interests of the two branches of the House of Austria, the retention of the loyal provinces of the southern Netherlands, and the exclusion of foreigners from Spain’s empire of the Indies. (Elliott 1989, 134)

In the images he creates, Quevedo reflects the point of view of the ruling class by condemning the enemies of Spain, who were identified with those considered to be an obstacle to the preservation of the empire, and whom he generally describes as heretics, thieves, and traitors. Guilty of heresy were, of course, the Germans, the inhabitants of the Netherlands, and the English. In Discurso de todos los diablos (Discourse of all the devils), Germans are Lucifer’s guard and escort (Quevedo 2003b, 492) and in La Fortuna con seso y la Hora de todos the chapter which is dedicated to them opens with the following words: “The Germans, heretics and Protestants, among whom the heresies are as many as men.”5 In the same work, the character of the English king says that his “kingdoms publically profess the Reformed religion but are secretly Catholic.”6 The accusation of heresy is directed as well against the French king (also called “rey Cristianísimo,” that is “Most Christian king”), whose catholicism is put into doubt. In La Fortuna con seso, it is a Jew who expresses what actually seems to be the opinion of the author (as Schwartz [1981, 9] explains, in Quevedo’s texts it is in fact common to percieve very little distance between the author and the voice of the narrator or the characters): “The Protestants of Germany have wanted the Emperor to be a heretic for many years. In this, the Most Christian king encourages them, pretending he is not, and distancing himself from Calvin and Luther. The Catholic king opposes them to maintain the supreme dignity of the Roman eagles in the House of Austria.”7 The passage shows as well two fundamental components of the Spanish auto-image as represented by the king and opposed to the image of the Germans and the French: on one hand, the assumption of being God’s elected people and, as a consequence, the defenders of the Catholic cause, on the other, the idea of being the heirs of the Roman Empire:

5.

“Los alemanes, herejes y protestantes, en quienes son tantas las herejías como los hombres” (Quevedo 2003c, 728).

6.

“unos reinos, públicamente de la religión reformada, secretamente católicos” (Quevedo 2003c, 760).

7.

“Los protestantes de Alemania ha ya muchos años que pretenden que el Emperador sea hereje. A esto los fomenta el rey Cristianísimo, haciendo como que no lo es y desentendiéndose de Calvino y Lutero. Opónese a todos el rey Católico para mantener en la casa de Austria la suprema dignidad de las águilas de Roma” (Quevedo 2003c, 777–78).

Images of the “condemned” Europeans in the satiric works of Francisco de Quevedo59 It was, above all, Rome which provided the ideologues of the colonial systems of Spain, Britain and France with the language and political models they required, for the Imperium romanum has always had a unique place in the political imagination of western Europe. Not only was it believed to have been the largest and most powerful political community on earth, it had also been endowed by a succession of writers with a distinct, sometimes divinely inspired, purpose. (Pagden 1995, 11–2)

This “imaginative dependence of the new upon the old,” as Pagden defines it (12), can be explained as the need to look into the past for a legitimation to distinguish the self from the other: “As, in the period of humanism, the various European literatures rediscover their past, the search begins for those specific characteristics that distinguish a nation amidst its neighbors; the logic is one of self-valorization highlighted by representing other peoples negatively” (Beller 2007, 6). In Quevedo’s satire this self-valorization can be found in the emphasis he puts on the greatness of the Spanish empire, which, he writes, causes the envy of the European monarchs. This is mentioned twice in La Fortuna, firstly in the words of the fictional English king who admits his “envy of the Spanish greatness,”8 and secondly when the monarchs of Europe are accused of supporting the Netherlands in their attempts to undermine Spanish supremacy in the Indies.9 As Elliott (1989, 10) points out, among the implications of an empire stands the far-reaching psychological one, which creates a conscious sense of imperial mission, imperial functions, and imperial duties. In fact, Quevedo adopted a defensive position in relation to what had been achieved in terms of overseas colonies and European dominions, and condemns those who intended to take over what was gained through the Spanish efforts both in terms of territory and wealth. In his vision, the image of the Spanish Empire in relation to other European states resembles that of a body which is gradually being consumed by parasites. In Sueño de la muerte the Genoese are called “scrofulas of money” (“lamparones del dinero”; Quevedo 2003a, 420) and “impetigos of bags” (“usagres de bolsas,” 420), while in La Fortuna the French are described as lice: “now I see that you French are the lice who eat Spain all over.”10 The words are pronounced by a Spanish man who meets three Frenchmen, a knife-grinder, a locksmith, and a pedlar (three professions which where commonly associated with the French, see Schwartz’s footnote to her edition, 709) on the mountains of Vizcaya, while they are heading into Spain with the intention of making money from their trades. Moreover, for the people of the Netherlands (he refers to them with the term holandeses; this and other terminological issues are explained by Rodríguez Pérez 2008, 17–19), the author uses the verbs “pick” (pellizcar) and “gnaw” (roer), when they are blamed for behaving like pirates and rebels against the Spanish fleets and king:

8.

“mi envidia y la de mis ascendientes contra la grandeza de España” (Quevedo 2003c, 761).

9.

“Para esto los ha sido aplauso, confederación y socorro la envidia que todos los reyes de Europa tienen a la suprema grandeza de la Monarquía de España” (Quevedo 2003c, 696).

10.

“ahora veo que los franceses sois los piojos que comen España por todas partes” (Quevedo 2003c, 712).

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Irene Bertuzzi considering themselves first-born sons of the ocean and convinced that the sea that gave them the land which it covered as a room, wouldn’t deny them the land which surrounded it, they resolved, hiding it in ships and populating it with pirates, to pick and gnaw different parts of the West and the East.11

As can be observed in most of the cases cited so far, a feature that is common to all the foreigners is that their purposes are not seen as legitimate, since they want to achieve them through dishonesty and false behavior. This kind of judgement could be explained by Quevedo’s Neostoic belief “that moral corruption is the result of false opinion and, in particular, of attachment to power and wealth” (Ettinghausen 1972, 128), two weaknesses that especially concern the European enemies. In relation to the wealth of the empire, the author stresses the fact that some foreigners expect to take possession of the gold and silver coming from the American territories, without having to face the dangers of the sea and deal with the exploitation of the mines. This accusation is especially directed against the holandeses, who attacked the Spanish fleets on various occasions: “They go after gold and silver in our fleets as our fleets go after gold and silver in the Indies. To save and take shortcuts, they take it from he who brings it, instead of mining it from he who raises it.”12 It is interesting to notice that in the texts of the sixteenth century there was already the idea that the people of the Netherlands acted as if Spain were the Indies; in fact the “remarkable image of the Spaniards in which they assigned themselves the role of victims modelled on the relation between Amerindians and Spaniards already existed in Charles V’s time” (Rodríguez Pérez, 38). A similar allegation is made against the French workers coming to Spain, in the already cited episode of the knife-grinder, the locksmith, and the pedlar, where they are compared to “a terrestrial fleet” (Quevedo 2003c, 711) through a metaphor which recalls, once again, the commonplace that foreigners went to Spain to enrich themselves without having to cross the ocean. The Genoese in Sueño de la muerte are described as leeches who suck the blood of the Indies’ veins; that is, the metals of the mines: “Genoa has thrown leeches from Spain to the Cerro del Potosí, which are stanching its veins and with their sucking are beginning to dry up the mines.”13 If on one hand the Spanish Empire’s enemies are stealing its wealth, on the other they are treacherously attempting to take its territorial possessions in the European and the American continent by means of treason and hypocrisy. The inhabitants of the Netherlands are not just seen as pirates and heretics, but also as rebels and invaders: “The Spanish king is laden with occupations and expenses because of the Dutch, who in Holland have taken from him what he owned and want to take from him what he owns; who have seized, in the best and main part of Brazil, wood, tobacco, and sugar.”14 In 1621, after a truce of fourteen years, the hostilities between Spain 11.

“presumiendo de hijos primogénitos del océano y persuadidos a que el mar que les dio la tierra que cubría para habitación no los negaría la que le rodeaba, se determinaron, escondiéndole en naves y poblándole de cosarios, a pellizcar y roer por diferentes partes el occidente y el oriente” (Quevedo 2003c, 695).

12.

“Van por oro y plata a nuestras flotas como nuestras flotas van por él a las Indias. Tienen por ahorro y atajo tomarlo de quien lo trae y no sacarlo de quien lo cría” (Quevedo 2003c, 695).

13.

“Génova ha echado unas sanguijuelas desde España al Cerro del Potosí, con que se van restañando las venas, y a chupones se empezaron a secar las minas” (Quevedo 2003a, 419).

14.

“Al rey de España sobran ocupaciones y gastos con los holandeses que en Holanda le han tomado lo que tenía y le quieren tomar lo que tiene; que se han apoderado, en la mejor y mayor parte del Brasil, del palo, tabaco y azúcar” (Quevedo 2003c, 722).

Images of the “condemned” Europeans in the satiric works of Francisco de Quevedo61 and the Netherlands reopened and this period of battles in the Low Countries coincided with the Dutch intent (and success) to establish themselves in the Indies: Since 1619 a purpose-built fleet had been under construction ready to sail to South America and capture a major port, provoke a native rising against the Iberian settlers and create a Dutch colony in its place. (Parker 1979, 78)

Obviously, Quevedo’s words are strongly connected to the historical context. La Fortuna con seso y la Hora de todos was published for the first time in 1650, but it is thought to have been written in the middle of the decade of the 1630s (Schwartz , in Quevedo 2003c, 566), and the images of the Europeans in this work (mainly in the last part of the text, which focuses on the enemies of Spain) reflect the conflicts of the Thirty Years’ War which by that time had already spread throughout the continent. In fact, the image of the French is influenced by their tensions with Spain over the Italian territories and by their anti-Hispanic policy in general, while that of the Germans is characterized by the Protestants’ intrigues and alliances which threatened the pax austriaca. In one of the short chapters of the book the author constructs a metaphor in which he compares the policy of the Germans with suffering the French disease, punning on the coincidence between the name of the people and a then-common way of defining syphilis: “The Germans […] wear themselves down in feeding the Swedish tyranny, the betrayal of the Duke of Saxony, Marquis of Brandemburgh, and Landgraf of Hessen, finding themselves corrupted by the French disease, they tried to cure themselves once and for all.”15 Quevedo refers here to the Leipzig Colloquy of 1631, in which two of the three cited German leaders took part. As Schwartz explains in her edition of La Fortuna, many libels and etchings about the Leipzig meeting circulated in the Castilian Court, and Quevedo might well have known some of them, especially one that presented the event as a Protestant plot, a sign of an existing international conspiracy involving the Lutheran and Calvinist Germans, England, France, Sweden, and the Netherlands (Quevedo 2003c, 729–30). Once again, his point of view on foreign policy coincides with that of the ruling class, since he embraces the defense of the monarchical interests. If the general image of the Spanish Empire is that of an entity under attack by heretical and dishonest enemies, as well as being the favorite target of its envious neighbors, the European states share a common foe: the Venetians. In Sueño de la muerte, the image of the Venetians is built upon four basic elements: That is a republic which will last for as long as it has no conscience, because if it returns what belongs to others nothing will be left. Beautiful people, their city is founded on water, their treasure, and their freedom are in the air, and their dishonesty in fire16

Three of the four natural elements correspond to a quality defining the Venetians: the fact that the city is founded in water seems to express their lack of reliability, while the reference to the treasure and freedom “in the air” may signify the precariousness of what they have and are, 15.

“Los alemanes […] se gastan en alimentar la tiranía de los suecos, las traiciones del duque de Sajonia, marqués de Brandemburgh y Lanzgrave de Hessen, hallándose corrompidos de mal francés, trataron de curarse de una vez” (Quevedo 2003c, 728–29).

16.

“Es república esa que mientras que no tuviere conciencia durará, porque si restituye lo ajeno no les queda nada. Linda gente, la ciudad fundada en el agua, el tesoro y la libertad en el aire, y la deshonestidad en el fuego” (Quevedo 2003a, 428).

Irene Bertuzzi

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meaning that their wealth comes from stealing, and that being a republic is actually a false kind of liberty. Finally, the dishonesty stands for sodomy (a word which was censored in the printed edition of the text in 1627 but is still conserved in the manuscripts), and is said to be “in fire” probably because at the time it was a sin for which one was burned in a bonfire (according to Arellano’s footnote in his edition of the work, 428). Later, in La Fortuna con seso y la Hora de todos, this image evolves from general accusations to more specific ones, as a consequence of the developments in the political context. In fact, until 1630 the Venetians officially maintained a neutral position, although they secretly backed France’s expansion in the Italian territory; however, when, starting from 1631, the French presence became a menace, the Republic passed from apparent to real neutrality (Bourg, Dupont & Geneste 1980, 74). By depicting them as dangerously prudent, false, and manipulative, Quevedo gives voice to the general perceptions about the Venetians held by the Castilian court and writers at the time (Herrero García 1966, 372–78). Through a simile, the author presents Venice as the brain in the body of Europe (“en el cuerpo de Europa hace oficio de cerebro”; Quevedo 2003c, 715–16), describing it as capable of influencing and determining the moves of the European states, while remaining still; thus the character of the Doge says: “We have been given peace and victories by the war that we have caused to our friends, not by the one that we have made against our adversaries.”17 The idea of the hypocrisy of the Venetians is expressed by insisting on the silence of their movements: “their own noise will disguise our footsteps.”18 Moreover, Venice is likened to Pilate (“Venice is the same Pilate,” 722), because the intrigues of the Republic favored the French expansion in Italy, damaging the Castilian ambitions concerning the Peninsula. Thus, if Venice is Pilate, then the betrayed Spain is Jesus. This is not only a way to condemn the Venetians’ behavior, by comparing them to one of the most despised characters of the Christian tradition, but also a self-valorization, appealing to a fundamental element of the Spanish auto-image: the belief in their messianic mission. According to what has emerged from this analysis, it seems that three fundamental aspects contributed to the formation of the images of the Europeans as found in Quevedo’s satirical texts: the historical and cultural context; the author’s idealogy and personal situation; and the literary genre and tradition. In the case of Francisco de Quevedo, the historical context is that of the process of affirmation of national identities against the background of continuous wars: Until the 1580s, at least, most European wars involved only two powers fighting a simple duel; thereafter, wars that involved rival blocs of allies were more common. In the seventeenth century, hostilities were so widespread, and the allies so numerous, that making peace became extremely difficult. (Parker 1979, 65)

Fighting certainly favors national zeal and hostility against the Other; as a consequence, the images of other Europeans are characterized mainly by their condition of enemies, while the auto-image of Spain is that of victim of their envy and greed. Hence, as happens in La Fortuna, the presence of the image of a people in Quevedo’s satiric works can depend on the role they are 17.

“A nosotros nos ha dado la paz y las victorias la guerra que hemos ocasionado a los amigos, no la que hemos hecho a los contrarios” (Quevedo 2003c, 717).

18.

“su propio ruido disimulará nuestros pasos” (Quevedo 2003c, 719).

Images of the “condemned” Europeans in the satiric works of Francisco de Quevedo63 playing in European policy at the moment in which the author is writing. However, as in the case of images of drunken Germans and Italian sodomites, it can also rest on the existence of common stereotypes, which are usually widespread by written and oral texts, as the use of similar images in other authors demostrates. Moreover, images are constructed according to the author’s personal vision. It is important to keep in mind that Quevedo was born in Madrid and was a member of the ruling class when the kingdom of Castile was the core and basis of the Spanish Empire. Despite his occasional conflicts with some representatives of the power, for which he paid first with exile in 1621 and then with incarceration in 1639, his ideology was a conservative one, and his vision was certainly imperialist and centralist. Another fundamental component of his thought was his Christian Neostoic education, which lead him, in Rey’s words, to understand justice and politics in moral terms (2010, xxi). As Schwartz explains, one of the characteristics of satire is the structuring of a world which is organized as the antithesis of an ethical desideratum, defined by the philosophical and theological systems subscribed to by the author (1989, 620). The literary genre determines the content of the texts, and since the purpose of the satire is to show the truth by uncovering false behaviors, Quevedo condemns those Europeans who, according to his way of thinking, are treacherous, dishonest, and heretics, their images being the alterity of an idealistic model founded on his vision of the world.

Vulnerability and the literary imagination in the Basque context Julia Otxoa, Bernardo Atxaga, and Luisa Etxenike Annabel Martín When it comes to thinking about the arts and their role in the public sphere, few people are as inspirational as US opera and theater director, pedagogue, and international political activist, Peter Sellars. An especially charismatic man, profoundly in tune with his surroundings, Sellars possesses a lucidity about the human condition, a clarity of mind, that he translates in his work into a direct political (ethical) engagement with those on the margins of society through the power of art. As a director, Sellars strives for a pedagogy of social reconciliation, regardless of the scale of the project, its location, or its impact in the media. Whether it be at the Vienna Opera House, a state prison in New Mexico, a local community center in Los Angeles, or the Metropolitan in New York, Sellars understands what it means to simultaneously translate aesthetic experiences into different registers. Staging Mozart or Shakespeare for one sector of society inspires him to then reframe those texts, for example, into educational materials for marginalized adolescents seduced by identities of violence, into pedagogical reforms for the teaching of literature, or into possibilities of rehumanization and dignity for men and women who are imprisoned. In other words, he teaches us that the humanities have much to offer to social well-being. I begin this discussion of violence in the Basque context by calling attention to Sellar’s teachings because I am convinced that the arts (their critical tensions and destabilizing effects) can offer a new vocabulary for social reconciliation in the Basque Country. Today’s Euskadi is marked by the weakening of the nationalist stronghold of the public sphere as seen in the recent complication of the political spectrum: from the loss of the PNV parliamentary majority to the leadership of Socialist Party of the regional government (2009–12), the end of ETA violence (2011), the rise of EH-Bildu (the new radical left nationalist party) to the status of second most voted party in the last parliamentary elections of 2012 (23 seats out of a total of 75), or the rise of Podemos as a strong non-nationalist left-wing party in the last European elections of 2014. While all parties pay special attention to their relationship with Basque identity and nationalist ideology, the end of ETA violence together with the radicalization of the effects of the economic crisis by the governing Partido Popular in Spain has had the effect of shifting the focus from heroic identitarian narratives to the urgency of the day to day. Change through the humanities is based on the pedagogical impulse of non-aggression, on the scale of details dedicated to rescuing a forgotten sense of time, of finding beauty in that which causes a moment of pause, of understanding the complexity of simplicity. These are the strategies of the three Basque authors I follow in this essay: Julia Otxoa, Bernardo Atxaga, and Luisa Etxenike. In “Getting Real: The arts in post-NEA America,” Sellars argues that clarity is sometimes not the best road towards truth and understanding. Using the metaphor of the Ming maze-like garden, Sellars explains how the three epistemological phases that the wanderer experiences in that landscape are, in actuality, a method akin to both art and politics. When walking through this garden, the stroller is invited to navigate from the particular to the abstract only after having experienced disorientation by traversing a labyrinth. For Sellars (1997, 17), the cognitive route doi 10.1075/chlel.29.07mar © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Vulnerability and the literary imagination in the Basque context65 of this design represents the macropolitical architecture of democracy: it describes a path from the individual to the collective only made possible by change and experimentation. Likewise, Catalan writer Juan Marsé also appealed to this method of learning in his 2008 Cervantes Prize Lecture when he affirmed that Cervantes’s greatest legacy was his ability to grasp that “things are not always what they seem” (Marsé 2008, 6). In that speech, he was making a reference to the dark years of Francoism, to its many labyrinths of deception and distortion, a time when even “mirrors told lies” (Marsé 2008, 7). Literature then, just like today, helps us out of the labyrinth by “leaving a thread, just like Theseus did, so that we can return and explain what we’ve learned” (Marsé 2008, 7). Similarly, Peruvian Nobel Prize winner, Mario Vargas Llosa made a heart-felt claim to the truths literature reveals when he explained in his 2010 Nobel Lecture that: [t]hanks to literature, to the consciousness it shapes, the desires and longings it inspires, and our disenchantment with reality when we return from the journey to a beautiful fantasy, civilization is now less cruel than when storytellers began to humanize life with their fables. We would be worse than we are without the good books we have read, more conformist, not as restless, more submissive, and the critical spirit, the engine of progress, would not even exist. Like writing, reading is a protest against the insufficiencies of life. When we look in fiction for what is missing in life, we are saying, with no need to say it or even to know it, that life as it is does not satisfy our thirst for the absolute — the foundation of the human condition — and should be better. […] Whether they want it or not, know it or not, when they invent stories the writers of tales propagate dissatisfaction, demonstrating that the world is badly made and the life of fantasy richer than the life of our daily routine. This fact, if it takes root in their sensibility and consciousness, makes citizens more difficult to manipulate, less willing to accept the lies of the interrogators and jailers who would like to make them believe that behind bars they lead more secure and better lives. (Vargas Llosa 2010, 2)

New models of foreignness The work of Julia Otxoa, Bernardo Atxaga, and Luisa Etxenike are direct heirs of the Cervantine maxim, deeply aware of the chimera of the factual and distrustful of the obvious. The sociopolitical context that surrounds their literature makes them have to inevitably confront the endless renewal of the Basque nationalist fantasy that still inspires much of the cultural and social reality in Euskadi. This is a very particular imaginary, one that in another essay I termed “designer nationalism” (A. Martín 2003) or an otherwise very astute use of the tourist imaginary (its reification of identity) and the circuits of global capitalism to ensure the political and economic visibility of a “people,” the Basques (see Harrington 2005). Understanding the gravity of this falsification would not be so pressing were it not for how ETA political violence has distorted and collectively dehumanized Basque civil society. Much like the lukewarm attempts of the regional parliament when it was governed by the Basque nationalists to unevenly provide a civic model that would more accurately represent the diversity of Euskadi and its peoples, insufficient attention has also been paid to making a critique of violence and the needs of its victims the cornerstone of a new pedagogy of peace and social cohesion. (An important exception to this would be the work that takes place at Arteleku, the Basque Country’s prime site for independent, cutting-edge thinking in the arts, located in Donostia-San Sebastián and publicly funded by the Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa.)

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The nationalist imaginary reduces the legitimate claim for higher levels of self-government into a toxic phantasmagoria of constant victimization and collective psychological aggression. Self-government in the Basque case is not an issue of parliamentary debate but rather of historical, atavistic rights. One would expect, then, that in a land so riddled with victims, a special sensitivity would have surfaced towards all forms of aggression, especially that concerning ETA. Unfortunately, until recently the structures of feeling in circulation in Basque society made this difficult, given how victims were “legitimized” based on their political affiliation or “ethnic”/ national identification (Spanish or Basque), one mode of being perversely excluding the other. It is too early to find any conclusive transformations from the recent “Law of recognition and protection of victims of terrorism” (2008) or from the educational programs for Basque children that address political violence, but one needs to be optimistic and see these measures as important formal steps towards social reconciliation (see A. Martín 2009). There is room in Euskadi for literature to occupy a much more central role in developing an integrated social fabric. We will look, just like Mario Vargas Llosa did in his Nobel Lecture, to literature for ideas on how to broaden our horizons and resist falling prey to the brutal anesthetization of society. As Claudio Magris (2001, 25) reminds us, “if history is about facts, sociology describes processes, statistics provides the numbers […] literature is the only place where we experience how all of this becomes body and blood in the life of individuals.” Three of the Basque authors who have best imagined a more humble and less wounded society are Bernardo Atxaga (Asteasu, 1951), Julia Otxoa (San Sebastián, 1953), and Luisa Etxenike (San Sebastián, 1957). Theirs is a labor that “defies the space that separates” (John Berger, quoted in Rich 2001, 107) thanks to the magic of the literary, to that special alchemy of art that generates what US poet laureate Billy Collins (2001, 5) terms, “new synapses” in each one of us. These writers carve out unknown cognitive routes, build paths out of wonder and astonishment, and rebalance and reorganize our blunted notion of the real. Following the Ming garden metaphor, their writing invites us to detain ourselves with the particular, with everything that goes ignored or silenced, and, of course, to question the falsehoods and cultural counterfeiting that can no longer keep a hidden country from view. The labyrinthian imagery at play here gets its inspiration in Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s (1985, 26) concept of nomadism or an invitation “to hate all languages of power.” In their classic “What is a minor literature?,” a poetics of the counterhegemonic (or of the paradoxical in Atxaga’s formulation; see A. Martín 2000) turns into a recipe for cultural displacement, a displacement that rides on the back of a migratory imagination. In their words, literature turns us into “a nomad and an immigrant and a gypsy in relation to one’s own language” (Deleuze & Guattari 1985, 19). Or as Vargas Llosa (2010, 3) would have it, “Good literature erects bridges between different peoples, and by having us enjoy, suffer, or feel surprise, unites us beneath the languages, beliefs, habits, customs, and prejudices that separate us. […] Literature creates a fraternity within human diversity and eclipses the frontiers erected among men and women by ignorance, ideologies, religions, languages, and stupidity.” For Otxoa (2005, 11), this implies conceiving all models of identity as if one were “entering a foreign geography,” unknown yet seductive, beyond our control yet familiar (see also Aguado 2006, 30). Her artistic production prowls within a liberated critical discourse much longed for and needed in societies like the Basque Country that are dominated by identitarian models lacking in self-awarness and critique; her work saunters around the piece of reality that for Magris (2001, 28), “defends the misfit against the norm and rules, remembers that the world has cracked,

Vulnerability and the literary imagination in the Basque context67 and knows that no restoration can conjure a harmonious and unified image of reality, something that would otherwise be false.” For Otxoa this means entering spaces that have little to do with the conventional, like her notion of el hueco (the gap) as an “active, positive space that interrupts the linear” (), or of “the ruin” as “a prayer of affliction, a cartography of contradiction, a chaotic instant in our everyday lives” (Otxoa 2004, 66). Hence, her writing is “an aesthetics of collision against the opaqueness of linear language” (Otxoa 2004, 66) and she designs a map of the garden-labyrinth to rethink identity and its chimeras. In her books of poetry, the hueco or in-between space, is teeming with unfamiliar metaphors that provide readers with the kind of knowledge that originates in the eccentric and the unexpected. This is her route towards the “ruin,” towards that which goes unseen. She creates these “instances,” these flashes of truth, by making brevity her signature literary style. The nonproliferation of words allows her to turn the “simplicity” of form into a place to rest and to reflect after having come face to face with the exceptional. Txetxu Aguado (2010, 264) also finds this to be the case when he writes “brevity becomes her inexorable tool as she attempts a non-totalizing means of expression, as if it were the indispensable minimum she needs in order not to lose contact with her readers and with reality.” Otxoa’s conceptualization of aesthetics is particularly productive as a “method” for delving into the underlying complexities of all linguistic, identitarian, or cultural formations. In the Basque context, one finds the conflict between cultural homogeneity and the global aggravated by a sociopolitical context overly tolerant of the erosion of political freedoms. Under these circumstances, identity easily turns into a politics of intransigence, of otherness, into the criteria for sorting between “us” and “them.” To counterbalance this unattractive call to sameness, Otxoa imagines identity as an adverb of sorts, as a way of being. Conceptualized as a layered ruin, as an ever-evolving constellation in time (a hueco), she proposes that we think of ourselves in what Ian Chambers (1994, 25) calls “the subjunctive mode,” (25) i.e., as if we had an unmistakably fixed identity, yet were fully aware of its illusory nature, of its “inevitable failure.” In Euskadi, where the question of “size” (uniqueness) always finds its way in through the back door in discussions of identity, a notion of Basqueness under these terms would highlight its “foreignness” over its cultural specificity, a push towards becoming more universal. Without giving up its distinctiveness, the local-global binomial could contribute to that collective plan of making the world a more inhabitable, diverse, and “smaller” place. Bernado Atxaga was one of the first to show a heightened awareness of this issue in his internationally acclaimed Obabakoak (People/Things from Obaba, 1989) when he stated the universality of Basque culture in the following way: The whole of the literary past, be it from Arabia, China, or Europe is at our disposal; in shops, in libraries, everywhere. Thus any writer is free to create his own tradition. He can read The Arabian Nights one day and Moby Dick or Kafka’s Metamorphosis the next […] and those works, the spirit that they communicate, will immediately pass into his own life and work as a writer. These days nothing can be said to be peculiar to one place or person. The world is everywhere and Euskal Herria, is no longer just Euskal Herria, but — as Celso Emilio Ferreiro would have said — “the place where the world takes the name of Euskal Herria.” (Atxaga 1992, 324)1

1.

“Todo el pasado literario, ya el de Arabia, ya el de China, ya el de Europa, está a nuestra disposición; en las tiendas, en las bibliotecas, en todas partes. Cualquier escritor puede así crearse su propia tradición. Puede leer Las mil y una noches un día, y al siguiente puede leer Moby Dick o La Metamorfosis de Kafka […] y

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For critic Mario Santana, this process of cultural “importation” would counterbalance the isolationist tendency of the autochthonous in the nationalist identitarian project. In his words: The literary repertoire of a community […] is also composed of works and authors that acquire citizenship thanks to a process of nationalization or naturalization. If national literature is understood as a system of communication that is effective within a particular social geography […] and not simply as a list of works, it must account for the appropriation of supposedly foreign works and values that is constantly effected in the receptive practice of its citizens. This necessary shift from the talk of cataloguing the literature of a nation to that of analyzing the existent repertoire of literature in a community requires the abdication of any exclusive rights to the ownership of works and authors. (Santana 2005, 119)

These “authors’ rights” have, of course, expired. For Atxaga, there is no room for nostalgia in twenty-first century notions of identity, especially given how in the Basque case, we have high hopes of witnessing the end of ETA violence and the beginning of a process of reconciliation and tolerance, a process, these writers agree, that needs to be anchored in the arts. In Soinujolearen semea (The accordionist’s son, 2003), Atxaga’s most accomplished analysis of the structures of feeling surrounding Basque nationalism and ETA violence, the novelist portrays the one-on-one combat Basque society faces with the weight of history, the inheritance and dissemination of political violence, and the endorsement of the Basque utopia as a complex technology of power. This is how Atxaga explains the contradiction of the secret country (Euskadi) during the postwar period: “On the one hand, the word Euzkadi only rhymed well with the ideology of certain Basques, those who had fought as gudaris [Basque nationalist soldiers] in the Civil War or had been on that side of the conflict, in other words, in tune with the ideology of the Basque Nationalist Party, and these were quite different from the Basques of Falangist or requeté [Carlist] ideology, numerous as well, or with those who fought on the side of the socialists or other leftist groups during the war; on the other hand, everyone who had fought on the side of the Republic had lost the war, not only the Basques that defended Bilbao or who were attacked in Guernika. In short, Euzkadi was not a territory nor a people — like the Basque Country, Euskal Herria was — ; it was the name given by a particular political option, the most Basquophile, to its utopia” (Atxaga 1997, 56).2 Despite its being a novel in memoriam, a text that could incite readers to get entangled in the “loop of melancholia” of the failed utopia, Atxaga begins with a poem that pushes us towards the future, a gesture that frames the novel as a repository of Euskadi’s past, as a place that must esas obras, el espíritu que ellas transmiten, pasarán inmediatamente a su vida y a su trabajo de escritor. No hay, hoy en día, nada que sea estrictamente particular. El mundo está en todas partes, y Euskal Herria, ya no es solamente Euskal Herria, sino —como habría dicho Celso Emilio Ferreiro— el lugar donde el mundo toma el nombre de Euskal Herria” (Atxaga 1989, 376–77). 2.

“Por una parte, la palabra Euzkadi sólo rimaba bien con las ideas de los vascos que habían luchado como gudaris en la guerra o habían estado a favor de su causa, es decir, con la ideología del Partido Nacionalista Vasco, y nada tenía que ver, en cambio, con los vascos de ideología falangista o requeté, también numerosos, o con los que durante la guerra combatieron en las filas socialistas o izquierdistas; por otra parte, la guerra la habían perdido todos los ciudadanos que lucharon por la República, y no sólo los vascos que defendieron Bilbao o fueron bombardeados en Guernika. En resumidas cuentas, Euzkadi no era un territorio ni una gente —como sí lo era el País Vasco, Euskal Herria— , sino el nombre que una determinada opción política, la más vasquista, daba a su utopía” (Atxaga 1997, 56).

Vulnerability and the literary imagination in the Basque context69 try to rest in peace. Atxaga’s preface documents the “death of words,” of their cultural demise, but not as a displacement of Basque culture. His intention is to make the novel a declaration of freedom for future generations (literally, for his own daughters), distanced as they are from the identitarian baggage parents and grandparents have carried with them for too long. The children’s generation will hopefully fulfill Atxaga’s dream of making levitation the marker of Basque identity, his festive notion of a people who will be identified by the impossibility of walking on the ground given the amount of weight that has been lifted off their shoulders and from their collective imagination (Medem 2003, 912). Julia Otxoa rescues us from the despair we might feel towards what seems to be the neverending story of ethnic violence; from the sterile narcissism of one who finds him/herself at home in the pain of a bloody and revengeful identitarian past, falling prey to a bleak forecast of the human spirit. Like Atxaga, she reminds us to resist, for after all, “In the middle of all this, / children still toss / their baby teeth to the moon, / begging for new alphabets of bone / to give name to life.”3 And Atxaga will carefully listen to the girls invent their “new alphabets,” their new horizons for the future, as they play outside the front door of the house: “The horse rode off to Garatare. / What’s Garatare, I ask them. / It’s a new word, they say. / You see, words don’t always emerge / out of remote industrial estates; […] / Sometimes they are born out of laughter / and float like dandelion clocks in the air” (Atxaga 2009, ii).4 The invented words displace the old, the ones that contain the senseless pain of generations; new traditions will patch up our world, calm our fears, and teach us how to enter and leave the labyrinth unafraid and intrigued in what lies beyond the patriotic wound. In the case of novelist Luisa Etxenike and her penultimate work, El ángulo ciego (The blind spot, 2008), literature also partakes in the reimagining of a society accosted by political violence, when the author makes us witnesses to how a man, orphaned at the hands of ETA, needs to turn to fiction, to his craft as a writer, as a means to wrestle with the seeds of fear and the unspeakable moral betrayals that terrorism generates in its victims. Less interested in the obliteration of the life of the victim gunned down by the terrorist bullet, Etxenike emphasizes instead the culture of blame, fear, and moral drifting that violence instills in its survivors, the kinds of epistemological nuances that terror introduces into the everyday. Ten years ago, an adolescent Martín convinces himself that the two men approaching him and his father on the street are a team of terrorists out to kill. Incapable of withstanding the tension and fearful for his life, Martín dashes into a local hardware store and leaves his father on the street at the mercy of the presumed assassins. The situation could have been real, but this time it is a product of Martín’s anxiety. Feeling powerless to face what he feels to have been a reprehensible and cowardly act, Martín will eventually leave his native San Sebastián and move to Paris to study, fall in love, and to symbolically “kill” his parents in an imagined car accident. He spends ten years away from his family mourning his father’s “foretold death,” in an attempt to rid himself of his fear and appease his guilt. It is only when Martín senior is actually killed on the streets of San Sebastián that he returns to the side of 3.

“En medio de todo esto, / los niños siguen arrojando / sus caídos dientes a la luna, / suplicando nuevos alfabetos de hueso / para nombrar la vida” (Otxoa 2000, 15).

4.

“El caballo se fue a Gatare. / ¿Qué es Gatare? les pregunto. / Una palabra nueva, responden. / Ya ves, las palabras no siempre surgen / en solitarias áreas industriales; […] / Surgen a veces entre risas, / y parecen vilanos en el aire” (Atxaga 2003, 8).

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his mother, Miren, deliberately after his father’s funeral, to search for a way to put this past to rest. What the reader believes at first to be the actual story of Martín Dorronsoro as it relates to the assassination of his father is but his literary rendering of the son he wishes he could have been, one not so intoxicated with fear and capable of confronting the social indifference surrounding his father’s death with a bit of a fire of his own. Etxenike’s novel is one of the very first Basque literary pieces to conceptualize ETA violence as a type of “contagion,” i.e., as a pervasive socio-cultural milieu that fertilizes a deadly atmosphere of fear, immorality, and complicity of the deepest kind. Hers is a brave attempt at imagining the kind of social framework that deeply embedded political violence inhibits, a novel that not only narrates death but more importantly imagines a route towards forgiveness based on mourning what dies in the survivor. Etxenike surprises her readers when she places the burden of imagining change in Euskadi not on the obvious, on the end of ETA violence, but rather on a process of reconciliation that the survivor of terrorism needs to undergo with him/herself. In El ángulo ciego, peaceful social reconciliation is not only about recognizing the entanglement of the Other in me, what Judith Butler aptly terms “a mode of dispossession fundamental to who I am” (J. Butler 2004b, 27), a recognition that “I cannot muster the ‘we’ except by finding the way in which I am tied to ‘you’” (J. Butler 2004b, 49). For Etxenike, reconciliation begins, more importantly, when the survivor of terrorism is confounded to learn that the “I” is a foreigner to oneself. Etxenike’s pen aims at underscoring how much of the story of the survivor is about recognizing the “details” (2008, 126) of the catastrophe that violence generates in the everyday, of living with the guilt of somehow surrendering to its demands when coping with fear, of forgiving oneself for not being the victim, for not having been able to control more of the victim’s fate, and above all, for violating an ethical taboo, i.e., for hating to recognize the feeling of contamination generated by the instinctual and primordial relief of being alive. This is the shame that Martín bears and that sparks the hatred towards himself: “I’m not afraid for my father; I fear for myself. I’m afraid that I might die too or in his place, from the day that I went in one door and out the other. Two doors. Being afraid for myself and facing my cowardliness.”5 The attack on the social fabric that interests Etxenike rests on the kind of ontological turn terrorism provokes on the identity of the subject. If, in Butler’s terms, the story of grief (the loss of the Other) [w]ould have to be a story in which the very “I” who seeks to tell the story is stopped in the midst of telling; the very “I” is called into question by its relation to the Other, a relation that does not precisely reduce me to speechlessness, but does nevertheless clutter my speech with signs of undoing. […] My narrative falters, as it must (2009, 23)

Etxenike posits that the relation at stake is not so much the most apparent one between an I-You in conflict under violence but rather a more unsettling situation between the multiplicity of the I as it becomes dispossessed of its integrity and discovers its own foreignness. For this Basque author, terrorism defies our sense of self in that it grounds our humanity on unstable, unfamiliar, and deeply unsettling grounds. El ángulo ciego takes this “vulnerability” head on and attempts

5.

“Porque no es miedo por mi padre lo que siento sino miedo por mí. Miedo a morir yo también o en su lugar, desde aquel día en que entré por una puerta y salí corriendo por la otra. Dos puertas. Miedo por mí y la comprensión de mi cobardía” (Etxenike 2008, 136).

Vulnerability and the literary imagination in the Basque context71 to posit a politics that places this dispossessed notion of the self at its core and while doing so defines violence as an exploitation of our primary ties within ourselves and with others, an exploitation that blunts our ethical imagination and directly attacks both the dead and the living. Miren, Martín’s widow, states it quite clearly: Martín would leave the house and I would think of the windows, of what the streets and the stores and the crosswalk and the trees would look like if Martín shouldn’t return; if he got killed out there and didn’t come home. Imagine that; that’s what I would be thinking about. Two mornings have gone by since his death and I’m afraid to look out the window, I’m afraid to see that it all looks the same, that everything is identical to how it used to be. That the absence of your father has left no visible trace in the street, in the pastry shop, at the ATM, at the crosswalk, on the trees. This crime leaves no traces; it’s as if nothing has happened. And I can’t bear to look.6

Can the literary point to a way out of this kind of social decomposition? Can an expansive notion of the poetic “resurrect” the dead? Etxenike seems to think so given how she carefully organizes her novel so that readers confront the “literary” working through of Martín’s guilt and grief first under the section entitled “La novela” (The novel). Here she uses two visual metaphors, los ojos (the eyes) and el ángulo ciego (the blind spot) to guide Martín’s reconnection with the social sphere. Los ojos entails his fictional recreation of revenge when he enters a bar that serves as the social space for Basque radicals in sympathy with ETA. Armed with postcards and tape, he sticks the beautiful tourist images of his father’s city to the counter of the bar in an attempt to bring his father’s eyes back to life: You close your eyes and you don’t see the landscape any more. You’re dead and you can’t see it. […] Some people take good care of themselves, they spend their life exercising and eating vegetables. What for? Do you see what I mean? They find you and they gun you down, like that bodyguard a couple of days ago; they shoot you and you never see the postcards again. The Concha Beach, the Alderi Eder Gardens, or the waves crashing over the Paseo Nuevo… Imagine that.7

The second metaphor, “the blind spot” or ángulo ciego (the title of the novel) refers to that place of safety, of intimate refuge that protects Martín and Miren’s family life. A former pelotari, Martín abandons the sport at the time when he would have had to turn professional. His athletic prowess makes him join the newly created Basque police force, the Ertzaintza, if only to leave the force and become a bodyguard for a member of the Socialist Party who needs protection. Martín’s daily life is all about detail, of looking out of the corner of his eye to screen the periphery in search of danger, to know who walks in front and behind him on the streets, to understand the sounds that surround him, to check under his car every morning for explosives, to never 6.

“Martín salía de casa y yo pensaba en las ventanas, en cómo se verían las calles y las tiendas y las rayas del suelo y los árboles, si él no volvía; si lo mataban por ahí y no volvía a casa. En eso pensaba, fíjate. Y llevo dos mañanas desde su muerte y no me atrevo a mirar por la ventana, no me atrevo a comprobar que todo se ve igual, que todo sigue idéntico. Que la ausencia de tu padre no deja ninguna marca visible en la calle, en la pastelería, en el cajero, en el paso de cebra, en los árboles. Ninguna huella deja ese crimen, como si no hubiera pasado nada. Y no me atrevo a mirar” (Etxenike 2008, 175–76).

7.

“Cierras los ojos y no ves los paisajes. Estás muerto y no puedes verlos. […] Hay gente que se cuida, que se pasa la vida haciendo ejercicio y comiendo verdura. Total para nada. ¿Te das cuenta? Llegan y te pegan un tiro, como a ese escolta anteayer; te disparan y no vuelves a ver las postales. Ni la Concha, ni los jardines de Alderdi Eder, ni las olas saltando en el paseo Nuevo… Fíjate” (Etxenike 2008, 34–35).

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roam the streets in a predictable fashion, and to find a place untainted by ETA: his “ángulo ciego.” This takes the form of his health food obsession, his tea expertise, but especially in his being able to “see” with his hand. This ex-pelotari finds refuge in the sting the heavy leather pelota ball produces in his hand as it beats against his skin and bounces against the walls of the frontón, a sting that makes him feel alive, a running about the pelota court that gives meaning to his life because it is here that he recognizes his “place” in the order of things, his freedom, his happiness, now only possible during his secret excursions to France to play clandestinely, avoiding the bullets of terror. It is the literary imagination that leads Martín out of despair when we learn how he reworks the feelings his mother shares with him, her most intimate fears, a case in point being the previous passage on the lack of impact Martín’s death has on the world. If in the passage quoted above (from the original version), fear and indifference dominate Miren’s thoughts, in the literary rendition of this scene Martín finds a solution by materializing for his mother a new ángulo ciego that only she can control: If someone were to ask me what living under the threat of ETA all these years has meant to me, I’d say, “Not looking out the window.” And maybe whoever heard me say this would think this is ridiculous or simplistic, a detail that means nothing. But that detail has kept unhappiness glued to my body. Do you want to know why I never looked out the window? I never looked outside because I couldn’t live with the idea that if your father couldn’t return the last thing I would have seen would have been his back. […] Why was that foolish, mom? Because there is no such thing as the last image of someone. Because in my head every picture I have of your father refers to no specific time. In every one of them Martín is either the same age or has a timeless face. It’s as if I’ve had his face inside me since the beginning, since we first met, a face that doesn’t age and if it does no one can tell. Imagine that, all these years I’ve been holding myself back from the window and now the first images I have of him come back more often than the last. You see, such effort, such pain, in vain.8

In the “Original version,” Miren laments the lack of social reverberation that Martín’s death provokes. Not only does this aggravate her pain; it also points to the type of social disintegration ETA violence has installed in the Basque Country. Yes, there is a banality to death but the lack of societal echo that these special circumstances underscore makes the mourning even more difficult. However, once Martín recognizes his own identitarian “foreignness,” once he comes to terms with the cause of his pain and guilt, he can carve out a new blind spot protected from the horrors of terrorism, a blind spot where joy, memory, and dignity are alive, an ángulo ciego that 8.

“Si ahora mismo alguien me preguntara qué ha significado vivir todos estos años con la amenaza de ETA, yo diría eso: ‘Aguantarse las ganas de ir a la ventana.’ Y a lo mejor a quien lo escucha le parece ridículo o una simpleza, como un accesorio que no va a ninguna parte. Y sin embargo a mí ese accesorio me ha mantenido la infelicidad sujeta, pegada al cuerpo. ¿Sabéis por qué no fui nunca, ni una sola vez, a la ventana? No fui porque no podía soportar la idea de que si vuestro padre no volvía a casa, lo último que yo habría visto de él sería la espalda. […] ¿Por qué era una tontería amá? Porque no hay últimas imágenes. Porque las imágenes que tengo de vuestro padre son sin tiempo. En todas Martín tiene la misma edad o una cara sin edad. Como si yo llevara una cara suya por dentro desde el principio, desde que nos conocimos, una cara que no se mueve o que se mueve tan lentamente que no se nota. Fijaos, todos estos años aguantándome, y ahora me acuerdo mucho más de las primeras veces de todo que de las últimas. Ya veis, tanto esfuerzo, tanto sufrimiento por nada” (Etxenike 2008, 55–56).

Vulnerability and the literary imagination in the Basque context73 will never erase Miren’s smile when she remembers Martín, for “nobody escapes if you follow who locks you in, if you do the same. You can only escape if you move in the opposite direction, as far as possible from who wants to keep you imprisoned.”9 Literature seems to have one of the keys to that door.

9.

“Nadie se escapa si va en la misma dirección que quien le encierra, si hace lo mismo que él. Sólo te escapas hacia el lado opuesto, lo más lejos posible de quien quiere encerrarte” (Etxenike 2008, 178).

The odyssey of Spanish Jews Un-homely Sefarad Dosinda García-Alvite Paying attention to the 1992 celebrations and to current discourses on multiculturalism in Spain, it can be argued that “the Jew” (and the counterpart “the Muslim”) has become a site for all anxieties of a national nature and for the definition of Spain as a member state of the European conglomerate, much determined by the “concept” of the multicultural. The Jew was always considered an outsider, a “foreigner,” an “alien” in Europe. In Spain, this was not always the case but it has currently become prominent. The relationship between Spain’s hegemonic cultural and social apparatuses with the Jewish community is troubling to the point that the country has been identified as one of the most antisemitic in Europe by the Pew Foundation (Kern, Perednik). One possible explanation could be that, as Paloma Díaz-Mas (1992) indicates, many Spaniards’ conceptions of Jews (most specifically Sephardim) today are one-sided since there were no social spaces created to bring them into direct contact with Jews from the sixteenth through the nineteenth centuries. This establishes a contrast with the fact that recently and after years of neglect, Spain’s Jewish medieval heritage is being rediscovered, re-examined, and promoted as a symbol of the possibility of multiculturalism. The paradox established between contemporary discussions of multiculturalism that refer to the medieval period of convivencia as a precedent or model, without further reflection on the consequences of the absence of Jewish subjects living in the country is disturbing. The amazingly divergent positions of Spaniards towards the Jew (closeness and distance — as that created from the expulsion of 1492) are difficult to explain, and yet they have been a recurrent motif in the history of Spain. In this sense, the representations of Jews in the current canon of Spanish literature display either a celebratory or a victimizing perspective that brings into question the space allocated to Jewish agency in the construction and definition of Spain. In this essay I propose that the value adjudicated to Jewish subjects and their heritage has become a sign of the uncanny in Freudian terms. The uncanny, or an experience of the unfamiliar as something that should otherwise be quite familiar, manifests itself in the images of Jews constructed in literary and artistic creations throughout the history of Spain. “The Uncanny,” writes Freud, “is in reality nothing new or alien, but something which is familiar and old established in the mind and which has become alienated from it only through the process of repression” (1955, 363–64). The images of Jews in Spain’s canonical literature possess the quality of the uncanny as discussed by Freud: they are familiar, familial, secret, frightening, alien. Another Freudian motif that expands on the concept of the “uncanny” would be that of the double, which can be very appropriate in the analysis of the attitudes Spaniards at large have displayed towards the Jew. “The Double” is an uncanny theme that represents “reflections in mirrors, with shadows, with guardian spirits” (Freud 1955, 235), and Freud interprets it as indicating the uncanny effect of “doubling, dividing and interchanging of the self ” (1955, 234). That is, most Spanish texts that represent Jews (and are not officially produced by Jews) reveal anxieties that mirror the tensions that their social positions have evoked at the time. They also show that the odyssey Spanish Jews have lived in their attachment to a home, “Sefarad,” has been unhomely. The word “Sefarad” was doi 10.1075/chlel.29.08gar © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

The odyssey of Spanish Jews75 used by Hebrew people to designate the geographic area we now know as Spain. It appeared first in the Bible, in the book of Abdias (Torrolba 1967, 319). In relation to this, it should be clarified then that in this essay when referring to Spain or Spaniards, the author refers to what could be called the Spanish nation-state and the dominant ideologies that have created it and sustained it as a Christian, monolingual, ethnically unifying entity. In this sense, Sefarad is rarely considered side by side with what is now recognized as Spain. The uncanny representations of Jews in Peninsular territory, as subjects being able to produce a profoundly unsettling sense of terror, “dread and horror,” (Freud 1955, 219) can already be recognized in the Middle Ages, the site of hope for contemporary multiculturalism. Although there is evidence that both in areas under Christian rule, and in the Muslim south, three religions coexisted — Christianity, Islam, and Judaism — sharing a common artistic heritage and literary traditions, there is also much contestation about early medieval Spain being a true multicultural society. According to Benito Ruano it is already traditional to speak of the Jewish experience in Sefarad as that of “coexistence or confrontation,” a dominant theme in the 1992 conferences, meetings, and publications that took place during the 500th anniversary (1992, 227). For example, Benbassa (2000, xxix) indicates that much has been made of convivencia, the relatively harmonious coexistence of the members of the three monotheistic faiths in Spain. This situation was unusual in medieval Europe. Spain was the only place where Muslims, Jews, and Christians were found living in the same land, and where the cultures of the three groups had deeply influenced each other. Yet the “royal alliance” and convivencia pointed not to a pluralist society, but to a relatively plural one. Ultimately the place of the non-Christian as well as the Christian was firmly fixed in a hierarchical social and ideological system.

Alternatively, the historian Henry Kamen (1988, 6, 8 & 12) proposes, in the interest of accuracy, “a society of dissent,” in which cultural dissidence was accepted and popular, so much so that disagreement with the Inquisition was extensive and has been documented. What is clear, however, is that the expulsion decree of 1492, with its hard choice of conversion or exile from Sefarad, brought to an abrupt end more than a millennium and a half of Jewish life and presence in what we know today as Spain. The earliest records attest to the settlement of Jews in Iberia back to Roman imperial times, from the second and third centuries on (Herskovits 2005, 38; Torrolba 1967, 13; Y. Baer 1961, 18–22). In this sense, an historical overview and an examination of the various representations of Jews, or their absence, will promote an understanding of how Jews have been at the heart of the construction of Spain’s national identity. Around 1492: un-homely Sefarad A sentiment of security and freedom from fear was prevalent in Sefarad until the pogroms of 1391. From that moment on, the homely attachment to Peninsular history and territory gradually took on the ominous dimensions of its apparent opposite, the unhomely. The persecutions and conversions that followed left about 100,000 Jewish people living in Spain until the dawn of 1492 (Uchmay 2008, 125; Freund, Scarlett & Ruiz 1994, 169). The uncanny or strange bond between the homely and the unhomely, the confrontation between the stable and the secret and hidden was established as, in the end, conversos outnumbered Jews and some of them became missionaries

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of hegemonic religious and social codes. For example, one rabbi, Solomon Levi, christened Paul de Santa María, rose to become bishop of Burgos. The Talmudist Joshua Halorqui left Judaism for the Church, took the name Jerónimo de Santa Fe, and became a zealous advocate of his new faith. By 1480 half of the important offices in the court of Aragon were occupied by conversos or their children (Ajami 1992, 24). These conversions signified a negotiation of positions that this period demanded, indicating the adjustments and conciliations that have defined Spanish Jews’ history. The tenth century in Jewish Spain represents a period of consolidation of past achievements. Several Hispano-Hebrew poets stand out as leading intellectuals of the time and renovators of Hebrew poetry. Hanagid, Ibn Gabirol, Moses ibn Ezra, Abraham ibn Ezra, and Halevi write in dialogue with Muslim compositions, when Jewish acculturation to then-dominant Islam reached a peak (Kogman-Appel 2002, 16; see for a detailed account Ashtor 1979). Later on, Jewish achievements in Spain are comprehensive and include not only the many well-known luminaries: Maimonides, Nahmanides, Ibn Gabirol, and Yehuda Halevi, but also many other lesser-known authors (Freund, Scarlett and Ruiz 1994, 169; Ytzchak 2008, 93; Azancot 1979, 1984 & 1986). Cultural exchanges with the non-Jewish environment, both Arabic and Christian, are displayed, for example, in the art of Hebrew illuminated manuscripts, which illustrate the dynamics of acculturation in a period of cultural transition, not only within Jewry but also within the hosting culture (Kogman-Appel 2002, 246). From this period, and in Christian territories, the work of Alfonso X, whose Cantigas (Songs) offer a variety of images of Jews that oscillate between their total condemnation and the perspective of salvation, stands out. There are four manuscripts that have survived of Cantigas de Santa María (Songs of the Virgin Mary) which are considered the richest plastic, visual, repertory in all the Spanish Middle Ages, representing Jewish subjects either as protagonists (in eleven cantigas) or as secondary characters (in numbers 89, 107, 25). Negative portrayals feed from classic topics of medieval anti-Semitism such as alliance with the devil, infanticide, ritual murder, and sacrilegious desecration (see Bagby 1971 for more detail on negative portrayals of Jews at the time). More positive views are presented when Jews convert to Christianity after the intervention of the Virgin Mary. These opposing views have received varied interpretations connecting them with the personal attitude of the monarch towards Jews, as he showed in some regulations of the Siete Partidas (Seven-part code), and raising questions about his coordination of collaborative translation projects between Jews, Muslim, and Christian scholars. On the other hand, anti-Semitism in this period seemed to be closely related to Marian devotion. Anti-Semitism is not a Spanish monopoly. Something that distinguishes Spain is the late date at which the expulsion of the Jews took place: the Jews had been banished from England in 1290, France in 1394, Vienna (1421), Bavaria (1442), Perugia (1485), Milan and Lucca (1489), and later in Sicily (1493), Florence (1494) and in 1498 from Geneva, Provence, Magdeburg and Ulm, with the result that at the beginning of the sixteenth century no Jews lived in Western Europe, except for territories under papal authority (Pérez 2007, 2). The miracles of the Virgin supported Christian beliefs, which were interpreted as opposite to Jewish religion, and built upon Jewish alterity: “Marian miracles with Jewish protagonists played an important role in the construction of Christian identity established on the basis of the opposition against the Other” (Rodríguez 2007, 230). While the restrictive legislation of King Alfonso X’s code of law — Siete Partidas — forbade Jews to hold public office, in fact they occupied administrative and political offices until 1492. Actually, local laws and customs were more favorable, such that “in comparison with the rest of Europe,

The odyssey of Spanish Jews77 reconquered Spain remained a country of wide opportunity for Jews” (Gerber 1992, 94–95). In a similar vein, Perry and Schweitzer comment that “uniquely in Spain and probably a measure of their acculturation and allegiance to the host society, the great majority of Spanish Jewry acceded to baptism rather than death” (2008, 29). Socially, the project of expanding Christian kingdoms is perceived as being put into question by a repressed alterity — the Jew — that is represented in the form of a menacing other, an other uncanny in its intimacy because it is already embedded in the very heart of Christian power. Jews are seen less as an opposite than as an uncanny double, a double that is split between becoming like the dominant medieval subject, or being the other and being excised. The crusading ardor that was the hallmark of medieval Spain and the Reconquest is put into question by the Jew, an active member in the home of crusaders who practices, however, another religion. In the end, according to Pérez, a key point for understanding the situation of Jews in Spain and the motives for their expulsion is that their faith made them a separate community, and as such they were treated as a collective body: “Jews were subjects and vassals of the crown, as Queen Isabel often reiterated.” This authorized them to practice a religion different from the official one, creating an uncanny situation (Pérez 2007, 65). Certainly the epitome of the uncanny figure is the “converso,” who crosses the threshold of the homely and unhomely every living instant. The issue of conversos in Spain transcended lines of class, ideology, and religious faith. By the middle of the fifteenth century, it was very difficult to answer the question of who was a Jew or a Christian. Up to the mass persecutions and conversions at the end of the fourteenth century (1369–91) and their expulsion in 1492, “Jew” meant to be Jewish by culture, religion, and what was then considered race (Herskovits 2005, 38). The hostility towards Jewish converts climaxed in the 1449 Toledo pogroms, and paradoxically the restrictive laws of “purity of blood” (necessary for entry into public office) became more and more restrictive as the actual Jewishness of the conversos became more remote, even mythical (Gerber 1992, 127). Around 1492 and after, with the rising numbers of Judeo-conversos, many of whom had felt forced to convert and some of whom had continued their religious practices, the problem of knowing what the word “Jew” meant arose, since it was perceived that conversos were not true Christians, but simply Jews. Spanish Golden Age society is characterized by an endemic anti-Jewishness. A positive image could only be presented in the context of the Old Testament and a few pre-expulsion Jews, and sometimes — indirectly — of the sincere converso (Herskovits 2005, 38). In dialogue with this situation, the dominant critical view considers Lope de Vega, Tirso de Molina, and Calderón de la Barca anti-Jewish, subservient to and propagandists for the ruling hierarchy (see Beusterien 2004 on Lope de Vega’s autos). However, it was a “converso perspective” according to Herskovits, at the same time defensive and critical, that facilitated the creation of a positive image of the Jew in the comedia. The technique of “engaño” (trick) used by dramatists to covertly question the discrimination against conversos that were still identified as Jews, first used by Fernando Rojas in La Celestina, made this change possible. He was followed by Lope who showed a strong interest in Jews (biblical, historical, and converso), rather than in Judaism, the dominant theme of the period. In his work, “the comedia was not simple propaganda, but often ironic and subversive; not always anti-Jewish, but often sympathetic to Jews” (Herskovits 2005, 321). The Jewish “problem” is mostly dealt with in comedias de honra (honor comedies) such as: Cervantes’s El retablo de las maravillas (The altarpiece of wonders, ca. 1587), Tirso’s El árbol del mejor fruto (The tree with the best fruit, 1677), and Lope’s Las paces de los reyes

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y Judía de Toledo (Peace of the kings and the Jewess of Toledo, ca. 1610–12) and El niño inocente de La Guardia (The innocent child of La Guardia, ca. 1605–10). Three main characteristics would define these authors’ view of life: “individualism (strong belief in the dignity, liberty and equality of individuals), heterodoxy (a theologically and socially critical attitude), and a double language (ambiguous communication)” (Herskovits 2005, 37). For example, in at least six comedias by Lope the problems of conversos are presented directly by the transposition of the Jew and by presenting Jews through positive and sympathetic characters. A study of the conversos in Spanish literature should certainly mention some authors whose impact on Spanish letters has been unique in Europe and who deserve to be studied in more depth, particularly from the late fourteenth to the early sixteenth centuries. Pedro Alfonso, formerly Rabi Mosé Sephard, Juan de Mena, Juan de Lucena, Fray Alonso de Espania, Rodrigo Cota, Jorge de Montemayor, Fernando de Rojas, Padre Diego Laínez (cofounder with Ignacio de Loyola of the Jesuit Order), and Mateo Alemán, all negotiated their belonging to Sefarad in many different ways. Others, like Miguel de Cervantes are suspected, but not proven, to have been descendants of Jewish converts (Lida 1961, 479–578).

Jews in selected works of modern Spanish literature and history of thought It is not until the mid-nineteenth century, when Spanish troops encountered Moroccan Sephardic communities during the Spanish African war of 1859–60, that the role of Jewish presence in the construction of the Spanish nation became a topic of research as part of what has been called “Spain’s problem.” Intellectuals of this period, like José Amador de los Ríos and Ramón Menéndez Pidal, and writers like Benito Pérez Galdós, Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, and Pío Baroja, explored the significance of Spain as a literary theme. While their initial position was to censure it, and later to Europeanize it, in the end they all saw in Spain the essence of their souls. Part of the exploration of Spain as a nation included a review of its history, which required a cautious approach to its Jewish roots (Cadavid 2009, 3). The contradictory essays and novels of Pío Baroja on Jews will not be examined here. Suffice it to say that he stood out as mainly anti-Semitic amongst his contemporaries (criticizing especially Askenazi Jews), although later his own nephew, Julio Caro Baroja, openly contradicted this evaluation. (When Julio Caro Baroja published, in 1961, Los judíos en la España moderna y contemporánea (Jews in modern and contemporary Spain), which is considered his best work, he had to confront a negative reception probably because of his focus on conversos and crypto Judaism [Pulido Serrano 2006, 49].) A brief synthesis of Baroja’s work would run the risk of simplifying the controversial readings it provokes. In this section, a historical approach that summarizes main currents of thought will be followed by an analysis of some of the characters created at this time to represent the issue of Judaism. Amador de los Ríos was a major nineteenth-century historian of Iberian Jewry who gave almost equal attention to Islamic kingdoms (Green 1998, 18). In his book Historia de los judíos de España y Portugal (History of Jews from Spain and Portugal), published in 1875, he explained that it would be difficult to revise the history of the Iberian Peninsula, either civil, religious, scientific, or literary, and not to frequently include the Hebrew nation, living in the diaspora for over two thousand years. According to him, the expulsion Edict of 1492 was a major cause of Spain’s subsequent long economic decline, an idea that has become popular among critics. Américo

The odyssey of Spanish Jews79 Castro sustained a similar opinion in his España en su historia. Cristianos, moros y judíos (Spain in its history. Christians, Moors and Jews, 1948), and later Julio Caro Baroja in his Los judíos de la España moderna y contemporánea (1961). A parallel campaign was led by Spanish senator and academic Ángel Pulido Fernández, who tried to recover the memory of Sephardic Jews and their place in the history of Spain, with his book Españoles sin patria y la raza sefardí (1905). His goal was to publicize the qualities and presumed identity dilemma of Jewish “Spaniards without a homeland,” some of whom he had met on a tour through Eastern Europe. Pulido was the main sponsor of a movimiento pro-sefardita that published works and organized political activities to promote the movement. Connected to the movement of sympathy for Sephardic culture that dates to the early part of the twentieth century, the works of Menéndez Pidal and Cansinos Assens stand out for their efforts in popularizing this culture. As Beckwith comments, Ramón Menéndez Pidal was an unprecedented collector and archivist of Judeo-Spanish ballads (2008, xlii). He studied romances sung by the Sephardim (mostly women) in Eastern Europe, Asia Minor, and Morocco, many of which he transcribed and made accessible to Spanish readers. According to Gutwirth, Pidal’s approaches and specific reading of this type of lyric poetry is framed by a view of a cosmopolitan European culture that combined, probably in contradictory terms “ideals of aristocratic, noble, knightly European cultures […] where memories of the Chanson de Roland, the German epic, and the Cid cycle were actively cultivated” with a “rich and complex literature of homiletics, mysticism, rabbinic codification, halakhic exegesis, and Hebrew liturgical poetry, which would affect most Jewish communities” (2001, 406–09). Ultimately his work established a model for modern collecting of Judeo-Spanish balladry through the world, which in turn, has become a fundamental corpus in the Pan-Hispanic artistic tradition, as well as in comparative European studies of cogenres, ballad geography, oral creativity, and so on. Another authority of the period was Rafael Cansinos Assens, a Sephardic Jew who emerged as an avant-garde leader in the 1920s in Madrid and built up a strong career as a translator. Cansinos Assens considered himself a Jew after discovering his family’s name in the Inquisition’s archives. He then dedicated his life to the promotion of Jewish culture. Friend of Senator Ángel Pulido, Abraham Shalom Yahuda, Ramón Gómez de la Serna, and Jorge Luis Borges, Cansinos Assens worked as a connector and diffuser of Jewish authors and works in Spain (Garzón 2005, 8). Several of his books show his interest in and dedication to Hebrew literature: El candelabro de los siete brazos (The Seven arm candelabra, 1914), España y los judíos españoles: el retorno del éxodo (Spain and Spanish Jews: the return from the diaspora, 1920), Las luminarias de Hanukah (Hanukkah’s lights, 1924), Los judíos en Sefarad (Jews in Sepharad, 1950). His little known Los judíos en la literatura española (Jews in Spanish Literature, 1937) deserves praise mainly because it focuses attention on the works of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century authors who develop Jewish themes. The book consists of ten chapters that analyze the images of Jews in works by Galdós, Blasco Ibáñez, Adolfo Reyes, Juan Pujol, and Concha Espina, among others. According to Cansinos, there are two literary genres that excel in the treatment of Jewish themes: novels and theatre (Cansinos Assens 2001, 31). Cansinos’s book deserves to be underscored for his synthetic and comparative work, which promotes Jewish themes successfully. One clear example is provided in his chapter about Raquel, a historical figure (lover of Alfonso VIII of Castile) who has claimed the attention of several Spanish writers. For example, Las paces de los Reyes y Judía de Toledo by Lope de Vega, La desdichada Raquel (Unfortunate Rachel, 1635) by Mira de Amescua,

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La Judía de Toledo (The Jewess of Toledo, 1667) by Juan Bautista Diamante, and the most famous of all works on her, Raquel (Rachel, 1778) by Vicente García de la Huerta. Most of the works focus on the relationship between the Christian king and the Jewish lover. De la Huerta puts them at the center, showing the complexities of the relationship, especially when Alfonso VIII gives power to Rachel to rule his kingdom, which brings about envy and resentment amongst his vassals. Additionally, there is an anti-hero, the Jewish counselor Reuben, who, wanting to increase his power, is treacherous to both his master and his coreligionist Rachel. The play presents and develops the dominant stereotypes in the Peninsula about Jews: on the one hand, Rachel is beautiful, passionate, intelligent, but brings the downfall of the person she loves, while Reuben represents the antisemitic image of the greedy, dark, ambitious Jew who believes he is above his contemporaries. In the end poetic justice is achieved with a balanced result: Reuben receives capital punishment for misleading Rachel and for his treason against the king, and Rachel, a tragic heroine, consciously sacrifices her life to save that of her king. The final result is that, as Cansinos Assens (2001, 48) indicates, García de la Huerta’s Rachel is placed in that poetic zone that stands between apology, legend, and myth, offering one of the most positive representations of a Jew in Spanish literature. It is in the historical context of the intellectual search for the soul of Spain and rediscovery of Jewish roots that realist author Benito Pérez Galdós (1843–1920) incorporated Sephardim in four works: Gloria (1877), Misericordia (Mercy, 1897), and from the Episodios Nacionales (National episodes), Aita Tettauen (Aita Tetouan, 1905) and part of its sequel, Carlos VI en la Rapita (Charles IV in Rapita, 1905). The character of Daniel Morton in Gloria has received contrasting criticisms: either as the Jew who has a position of moral and intellectual dignity or as an unbelievable, idealized character. For example, Schyfter (1976, 25) considers that through Daniel Morton “ultimately, Galdós sought to formulate a new type of religious commitment, one that transcended yet incorporated that which was universally valid in Judaism and in Christianity,” when he questions the dominant codes of love and honor that separate him from his lover, the Christian Gloria, who is expecting their child. Daniel’s reflection on dogmatic, fanatic, and liberal tensions running strong through Spanish history at the social, economic, and political levels characterize him as a socially committed independent thinker. In this sense, Schyfter (1976, 30) thinks that Gloria’s Daniel Morton allows the author to dramatize the hostile associations that traditional Spanish imagination portrayed through the Jews in order to deconstruct and overcome them, and that in “having created an eloquent Jewish spokesman such as Daniel Morton, Galdós offered proof of his tolerance, humanity and liberalism” (1976, 32). A different consideration is expressed by Paul Smith, who thinks that the presentation of Daniel Morton in Gloria is flawed by “Galdós’s theoretical approach to his characterization and the obvious manipulation of Morton for polemic ends. Despite Galdós’s sympathy for Morton and, what is rare in Spanish literature, his attempted idealization of a Jewish character, Morton’s Jewishness is unconvincing and adds little to his presentation as a human being” (Smith 1973, 288–93). More ambiguous and complex is the character of Misericordia’s Almudena. He is, as Vernon A. Chamberlin (1997, 492–93) points out, “a composite Semite, a personification of the three great religions which have existed on Spanish soil. This definition seems especially applicable to the official, historical religious tradition in the Spanish capital (where all the action of the novel takes place), because only when referring to Madrid is the name Almudena of significance.” (Almudena is considered a composite because the origin of the name is Arabic, but here

The odyssey of Spanish Jews81 it refers to both a Jewish character and a Christian cathedral, therefore encompassing three religions under the same name.) Galdós’s character was in fact born of Jewish parents, given the Hebrew name Mordejai, and learned the rudiments of Judaism. Later on, the reader learns that he has acquired some aspects of the Islamic religion, and that after his arrival in Madrid, Almudena accepted Christian baptism, although he will continue to consider himself Hebraic. It is through his childhood memories of Spanish, Arabic, and Judeo-Spanish songs, such as la melopea arábiga that he sings to Benina, the Hebrew song “Semd Israel Adonai Elohino Adonai Ishat,” and the Hebrew songs in Castillian from the fifteenth century that he confirms his past, even though most of his actions and history indicate that Mordejai’s Jewishness is ambiguous and confusing. His language, however, shows Castilian archaisms that correspond appropriately to the Spanish spoken by Sephardic people (Lida 1961, 297). Critics like Chamberlin have indicated that Almudena is not the focus of Galdós’s work, rather he was created to be a supporting figure for the protagonist Benina, in such a way that “Almudena is the contrasting foil who aids in her presentation and delineation” (Chamberlin 1997, 494). Other critics see in him a manifestation of Galdós’s commitment to Spain’s past and the three religions, so that his ambiguity makes evident the combination of reality and fantasy, which constitute a double symbol that encompasses the Hebrew and Muslim traditions and pushes towards tolerance (Lida 1961, 302–03). And in this sense, Galdós might have used Jewish characters for ideological reasons. More than to explore in depth the history and beliefs of the Jewish people, Galdós wrote in dialogue with, and in support of, the trend of pro-Semitism that most Spanish Republicans and liberals promoted around 1840 and 1860, in order to overcome their countrymen’s traditional distrust of the Jews. It was also against this background of a pro-Jewish current of thought that the literary work of Blasco Ibañez attempted to offset the unfavorable roles in which Jews had been placed in previous centuries. As Julio Caro Baroja states, Blasco treats the Jews sympathetically because ideologically he believed in Republican orthodoxy and the tradition of the democratic government of 1869, which was later continued by the Republic of 1931 (Smith 1973, 282). Blasco Ibañez shows his interest in Jewish characters and themes in several novels. Los muertos mandan (The dead are in command, 1909) is the best known; set in the islands of Majorca and Ibiza, it explores the lives of chuetas, descendants of fifteenth-century Jewish converts who are considered Jews by the islanders, but who have been practicing Catholics for centuries. Through the main character Pablo Valls, Blasco attacks traditional prejudices, based on the principles of limpieza de sangre, that are still wielded against chuetas. Other novels by the author that treat the topic are: Luna Benamor (1909), Argentina y sus grandezas (Argentina and its greatness, 1910) and En busca del gran Khan (In search of the Great Khan, 1929). Through the amorous relationship of Luna Benamor, a young Moroccan Jewish woman, with the Spaniard Luis Aguirre, Blasco explores how religious differences can establish barriers that even love cannot surmount. This novel presents, however, an acid view of some Jewish practices, as well as some Jewish characters that are not at all appealing to the audience, making the current reader pose questions about Blasco’s thesis. The other two works mentioned allow little space for Jews but they are novel in their approach. Argentina comments on Jewish migrants to Argentina who establish themselves in the countryside, while in En busca, Blasco explores, among other topics, three main arguments that have been historically given to explain the mystery surrounding the figure of Christopher Columbus: “shame over his humble background; youthful participation in piracy; his Jewish origin” (Smith 1973, 290). The writer revisits the possibility that Columbus might have been

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either a Jew or a converso, contributing to a view later supported also by historian Salvador de Madariaga, a proposal that according to Sable would be the culmination of the Spanish Jewish connection (1992, 38–9). There are, however, other less positive aspects of Blasco’s representation of Jews. Several critics have noticed, for example, his tendency to stereotype; his unquestioning statements about the reasons and processes of diaspora for the Jews, which he seemed to have naturalized; and finally, as Smith notes, “Like many other authors, Blasco focuses attention on wealthy Jews. Although this may stem from admiration, it also presents a partial view of reality and may reflect anti-Semitism to the degree that it tends to stereotype Jews by equating them with wealth” (1973, 284–85). All in all, both Blasco Ibáñez and Galdós succeed in achieving their openly stated goals of recovering Jewish literary characters for the pages of Spanish literature after centuries of having been ignored. But after recognizing their laudable enterprise, one also needs to pay attention to the shadows in their work. The passion these writers bring to their project is also full of strange, disturbing moves that reveal a certain level of insecurity, potentially threatening to the Spanish nation. As Smith points out, in the end, these novelists “fail to create a major outstanding character whose Jewishness is an integral part of his or her essential personality” (1973, 293). Ultimately, they present the Jew, like the character of Almudena, as a subject of contrast (against the socio-political vices that are criticized by the authors) in order to advance the larger ideological project of turn-of-the-century liberalism. Additionally, in the opinion of Amador de los Ríos and Smith, the works discussed above manifest a residual presence of anti-Jewish expressions that do not explicitly attack them, but offer very unpleasant connotations. For example, the common definition of judío as avaro (miser) or usurero (usurer) — frequent in these novels — indicates how language contributes to keeping alive anti-Semitism through centuries. It is here that the unpleasant face of the double, the uncanny streak of the commendable goal of creating a liberal nation shows its presence.

Returning to 1492 Much of the intellectual discussion about Jews in Spain in the twentieth century is framed around issues of multiculturalism. The work done by Américo Castro, who coined the term convivencia at the beginning of the century, and which expanded and deepened currents of thought that gained dominance at the turn of the century, has been used as a basis for recent discussions on the significance of the celebrations of 1992. Of all of his publications on the topic it is necessary to examine the importance of Castro’s book España en su historia: cristianos, moros y judíos (Spain in its history: Christian, Moors and Jews, 1948). According to Yakov Malkiel, its relevance derives from the fact that he deals with content rarely commented on earlier, not shying away from controversy but offering a perspective that stimulates dialogue because it “spares no effort to portray the Spanish Jew not schematically, but in rich color” (1950, 340). As A.A. Sicroff points out, Castro is really concerned with Spanish history and culture, to which religious and racial contributions from Judaism are fundamental and persistent as in no other country of Western Europe. This influence brought with it paradoxical consequences that go from the disaster of the expulsion to the stimulating creative endeavors in the fields of literature, art, religion, and politics, as can be seen in the figures of Fernando de

The odyssey of Spanish Jews83 Rojas, Luis Vives, Benito Espinosa, Mateo Alemán, Teresa of Ávila, and Luis de León (Sicroff 1972, 8–9). Castro develops the theory that a unique and vital situation developed in the Peninsula as a consequence of the Moorish invasion, distinguishing Spain from the rest of Europe. This special period reached its height between 711 and the middle of the thirteenth century, with profound modifications shortly thereafter (Malkiel 1950, 333). Castro also has a positive evaluation of Jewish and Muslim subjects’ influence at the court of Alfonso X the Learned, where they achieved preeminence as scholars, royal emissaries and negotiators, and even church dignitaries. After the 1391 pogroms Castro believes there were two groups of Sephardim: those who continued to be faithful to their religion and those were open to conversion to Christianity. For the Jews there was a “curious oscillation between inside and outside, which precluded their partaking of the Hispanic integralismo” (Malkiel 1950, 330). However, as Malkiel indicates, “It is an incontrovertible fact, in whose acceptance M. Bataillon felicitously concurs with Sr. Castro, that numerous converts were an active element, even a propelling force, in the body of the Spanish Inquisition instituted toward the close of the fifteenth century” (1950, 332). Castro’s thesis was famously rejected by Claudio Sánchez Albornoz who stressed the role of pre-Arab invasion cultures in the formation of Spain. He defended the notion that Spain was essentially a Gothic nation with a preeminently Catholic and European heritage that continued from Roman to modern times and that it had not essentially been changed or affected by Islamic or Jewish influences. Sánchez Albornoz proposed that the Reconquest against Jews and Muslims was a definitive moment in Spanish history, rebutting Castro’s view on the influence of intercultural exchanges (Green 1998, 16). Other critics question his positions as well, either for having an “oriental vision” of Spain (Kamen 1996, 26), or for what in current discourse could be termed “blaming the victim.” For example, B. Netanyahu says that Castro proposes that the idea of “purity of blood” which has usually been associated with the Spanish Inquisition and which became a main concern for Christian Spaniards, was rooted not in Spanish, but in Jewish sources (1928–29/1978–79, 1). In his view, Castro proposes that religious and racial persecutions were bolstered by Jewish law and Jewish social and religious practices, basing his argument in the analysis of biblical, Talmudic, and medieval documents. This analysis has been refuted by Yitzhak Baer and later by Netanyahu who indicates that issues such as the hermeticism of the Jews on the issue of intermarriage were not social, but rather religious, similar to the Christians, even in the face of converso marriages to old Christians. And it was precisely because of this, that old Christians enacted statutes against intermarriage which gave rise to the policy of “pureza de sangre,” which rather than stress the religious trend ended up fomenting racial segregation (Netanyahu 1928–29/1978–79, 452). In the end, as Netanyahu says, Castro posed the right questions but his conclusions were wrong and misleading. Even with this questionable legacy, Castro’s research promoted the adoption of new approaches to discussions about the formation of Spain. Castro’s suggestion that Spain’s problematic past is a disturbing present for many Spaniards, because it inhibits them from facing certain facts about themselves and the culture to which they belong, should be established as a working paradigm of research (Sicroff 1972, 5). If the Castro-Albornoz’s debate during the first part of the twentieth century renewed the discussion about the formation of the Spanish character, it is also true that, as Malkiel suggested, this conversation displays a “partly nostalgic, partly remorseful preoccupation with the Peninsula’s Jewish heritage, centuries after its deliberate destruction” (1950, 328).

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In more recent times, it was not until after Franco’s death in 1975 that the study of the coexistance or conflict among Christians, Muslims, and Jews became the focus of Spanish historiography. There is a little known fact that connects the Francoist government with Jews in Spain: after Germany occupied France, fifteen thousand refugees, including many Jews, crossed the Pyrenees into Spain (Axe 1993, 417). Special effort was made to help Sephardic Jews, who were considered Spanish subjects. The number of Jews saved by Spanish intervention is minimal when put against the background of six million lives lost, but as Axe points out, “the fact remains that Spain was one of the few countries in the world, and the only one sympathetic to aspects of Nazi dogma, that directly made efforts to save human lives that happened to be Jewish” (1993, 424–25). Since then, the dominant tone towards the Jews has been generally sympathetic, especially in the interest of promoting a multicultural Spain that can be traced back to medieval convivencia, “the peaceful and tolerant coexistence of the three cultures,” with a strong focus on Christian-Jewish relations (Green 1998, 16; see Brann 2002 for an analysis that contrasts historical narratives of Muslim-Jewish relations in eleventh and twelfth-century Islamic Spain). As the campaign of Rutas de Sefarad (Paths of Sepharad) proclaims, Spain’s Jewish heritage is being rediscovered, and its numerous medieval synagogues and neighborhoods, now well restored, can be visited once again. Part of the philosophy behind it is that the process of studying and recovering the Jewish past is interpreted as a sign of modernity in a postmodern tourist industry that appraises cultural tourism as distinctive (Juris 2005, 269). A similar situation can be observed in the dizzying array of festivals, conferences, recordings, and publications related to Judeo-Spanish history and culture, especially converso survivals that Judith Cohen (1997) observed in Spain around 1992. Beyond the utilitarian purposes of Rutas, the triumph of the project presents a difficult paradox that delves into the problem of the definition of Spain. The attention given to Jewish architecture and material history poses the following question: Does the relationship between Spain and Jewish people go further than their relationship with their past? Rutas de Sefarad has received criticisms, especially from those who see a dangerous tendency to focus on “the archeological Jew” and think that not enough attention is paid to the Jewish community of today, or the space that is ideologically created, or not created, for Jews to represent themselves. This attitude erases the reality of a community that although quite small is growing considerably and is vying for more visibility. In 1992, of a national population of about 38 million, there were only about 15,000 Jews in Spain, 12,000 of them Sephardic. However, the Jewish community of Madrid — the largest in Spain — has grown 28 percent in the last decade, having reached 15,000 people due to immigration (Rozenberg 1993, 92). Argentina, for example, is the country of origin for a third of the members of this community. Currently, the two major centers of Jewish life in Spain are Madrid and Barcelona, followed by Málaga. Other communities are found in Alicante, A Coruña, Benidorm, Cádiz, Gerona, Granada, Marbella, Majorca, Murcia, Torremolinos, Valencia, and Ceuta and Melilla, in Spanish North Africa, with the total number of Hebrew people registered reaching 40,000 in a country of almost 44 million. The Jewish community of modern Spain is primarily based on waves of post-war migration from Morocco, the Balkans, other European countries, and more recently, in the 1980s and 1990s, from Latin America; the majority are Sephardic (Camargo Crespo). These Jewish communities have been very active in establishing a presence in Spain, especially after the 1992 commemorative acts that gave impetus to many of their current projects. For example, the journal Raíces (Roots), started in 1998, has reached a

The odyssey of Spanish Jews85 wide audience and gained acumen in the fields of culture and literature. People can also tune into Radio Sefarad (Radio Sepharad), and watch a weekly culture TV show called “Shalom” promoted by Radio Nacional Exterior, and can even contrast it with Televisión Sefarad, a downloadable channel started by the Jewish community in Madrid. These cultural productions underscore the desire for an improved representation of Jews in Spain, especially one that is illuminated by the better aspects of their past. This relationship between past, present, and future to foment the revival of a great tradition, almost establishing a dialectical pattern, is a sustained theme in the literary corpus of Leopoldo Azancot Franco, a Sephardic Jewish writer born in Seville in 1935, whose work should be incorporated in the Spanish canon of literature alongside that of Marcos Barnatán (Buenos Aires, 1945-). Barnatán has produced a rich literary corpus: five poetry collections and two novels. Leopoldo Azancot’s Sephardic Moroccan origins provide the cultural background for many of his eleven novels, which offer, in the opinion of this critic, a working paradigm to gain some understanding about the conflicts in which the Sephardic Jewish community might live in contemporary Spain. For example, in La novia judía (The Jewish bride, 1977) and Jerusalén, una historia de amor (Jerursalem, a history of love, 1986), as Beckwith explains, the converso protagonists seek the kind of knowledge and public affirmation that may allow them to advance beyond a troubled existence between a persecuting gentile society on the one hand, and an ancestral but skeptical Jewish home community on the other. In general, his novels pay homage to, and delve into, the less popular view of the reversed trajectory of the converso who looks for re-acceptance and security within Judaism instead of Catholicism, by consciously reaffirming his links with Israel and its people (Beckwith 2006, 301–6). The focus on personal experience enriches the corpus of representations of Jews in Spain, counterbalancing the dominant discourse constructed by an increasing output of recent literary works produced by Spaniards. Other authors like César Vidal, José Manuel Fajardo, Carmen Espada Giner, and Blanco Villarreal have produced mostly historical novels that share a nostalgic view of lost times, sometimes bordering on victimization of Jews. In this sense, the dominant creative mood, similar to what Juris perceives in the recovery of “Rutas de Sefarad,” could be termed as imperial nostalgia. Renato Rosaldo, the anthropologist who theorizes it, describes it as follows: “The peculiarity of their yearning, of course, is that agents of colonialism long for the very forms of life they intentionally altered or destroyed. […] Nostalgia is a particularly appropriate emotion to invoke in attempting to establish one’s innocence and at the same time talk about what one has destroyed” (Rosaldo 1993, 69–70). This feeling of nostalgia has the effect of impeding dialogue, because it denies the possibilities of the present, especially the necessary conversation back and forth with the live Jew. Looking back at the past but not engaging with current policies that give rights, or do not, to citizens who are Jews, reveals how the uncanny, the old unhomely Spain can reside under the current interpretation of multiculturalism. Other writers, like Carme Riera, Miguel Delibes, José María Merino, and Antonio Muñoz Molina, present a more balanced perspective by engaging the subject of the Jews at a level of immediacy and of intimacy that longing for a lost past does not allow for. Sefarad (Sepharad) by Molina is a “new historical novel” that promotes reflection and stresses the role of silences, disjunctions, and multiplicities rather than the unity that is aspired to in totalitarian nostalgia (Gallego Cuiñas 2007). For example, Sefarad stresses the importance of remembering, of not forgetting history, in order not to repeat previous episodes. And the format in which this message is conveyed, alternating persons and multiple subjects,

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through autobiographical and travel writing, memoir and fiction, makes evident that the author has an interest in alterity, in the other, and even more generally, in fellow human beings, an “other” who thus becomes familiar (Grotman 2006, 237). This movement to embrace the other, to make the uncanny homely, overcomes the distance that is reiterated through nostalgic imagining. To conclude, traveling home for Spanish Jews requires a physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually demanding process that evokes the discomfort of unhomeliness. Sefarad’s Jews have experienced close attachment to and alienation from the national imaginary, depending on how they were perceived by their contemporaries. The images produced in most works of Spanish literature show that they have been used to project fears or to replay the ideological debates of the times. Save memorable exceptions in which Jews were active participants in their representation, such as in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and more recently in the works of Azancot and Barnatán, Sefarad as we know it today has not been a homely nation. The exclusion of much of their literature from the canon speaks to that. Amidst this bleak picture, the impetus of contemporary Jewish communities offers some hope for renovating the active meaning of Sefarad both for Jews and other citizens of the Spanish state.

Self-images and hetero-images in Portuguese youth literature Francesca Blockeel Reasons for Portuguese national pride Although Portugal is in general not very well known, it can boast of a significant historical and cultural background, of which most Portuguese are justly proud and which influences the image they have of themselves. To start with, it is not well known that Portugal was the first of the modern nation-states to be established on the European mainland. In 1143, when the Iberian Peninsula still comprised several separate kingdoms, Count Afonso Henriques of Portucale, a vassal of the Castilian king, proclaimed himself king, seceded from Castile and extended his territory southward by expelling the Moors. The Portuguese borders were stabilized by 1249, while the other kingdoms were amalgamated into Spain only in 1492. This early independence is a source of great national pride to the Portuguese, because it makes Portugal the oldest kingdom in continental Europe within virtually unchanged borders. It also triggered the hostility between Castilians, later Spaniards, and the Portuguese. Overlooking the Atlantic, the Portuguese have, since the fourteenth century, navigated over most of the world’s oceans. It was they who made the (re)discovery of the New World possible, by inventing ship-building techniques and navigation instruments, and by circumnavigating first Africa and, eventually, the entire world. Hence their anguish that many people are only aware of Columbus and cannot readily place Vasco da Gama or Magalhães. The foremost self-image of Portugal is that of a seafaring nation, with a far-ranging colonial empire covering Africa, Asia, and South America. In the sixteenth century, Portugal was one of the world’s major economic and political powers, with a trade monopoly in the Indian Ocean and commercial ties in most of the important European ports. When Spain took over Portugal, from 1580 to 1640, it put an end to Portugal’s glory. Portugal lost most of its colonies in Asia, lost its economic ties with England, and had to pay high taxes to Spain. This provided a new basis for negative feelings against Spain. After the restoration of independence, Portugal never found its former drive again, and when it lost Brazil — its most valuable colony — in the aftermath of Napoleon’s expansion, Portugal’s status as a global power was over. Moreover, unlike the rest of Europe, the Catholic, conservative, and autocratic elite opposed the Enlightenment and resisted the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century thinkers who advocated that Portugal reform itself in the European mould. The latter were therefore considered estrangeirados (estranged people). At the end of the nineteenth century, with romanticism and its underlying rising nationalism, both historians and literary men emphasized the country’s past glory, aspiring to restore its former greatness. According to Simon Kuin (2007, 220) the romantic image of the Portuguese “as a noble yet down-to-earth nation, once capable of heroic deeds but now destined to combat their decline rather than to maintain their greatness” remains operative today, and he refers to the Portuguese hymn of 1910: “Heroes of the sea, noble people, brave immortal nation: today restore the pomp and glory of Portugal to its honor.” He adds that the Portuguese common man doi 10.1075/chlel.29.09blo © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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was seen as “patient, credulous, placid, even apathetic, but can display bouts of mistrust and rebelliousness; but in the end he remains a loser” and that there existed the “idea that Portugal is destined to lose out against the competition of the other European colonial powers” (Kuin 2007, 221). In the first quarter of the twentieth century patriotic feelings thrived due to the end of the monarchy, the many revolutions, and the advent of the republic. Traditions, legends and myths were “(re-)invented” to form another imagined community. From 1926 until 1974 Portugal lived under a semi-fascist dictatorship, directed by Salazar. Republican patriotism turned into an officially organized, overexalted nationalism. As Eduardo Lourenço (1978, 28–32), a leading Portuguese essayist, points out, Salazar systematically exploited the deeply rooted nationalist feelings of the common man and glorified the past through an authoritarian and filtered version of history. All foreign influences were seen as threatening the character and identity of the Portuguese, and hence banned as much as possible. This resulted in even stronger repression and censorship. Finally only one uniform version of Portugal’s history remained. For almost fifty years the national conscience was fed by epic tales from a great empire. No wonder Lourenço speaks of the hyperidentity of the Portuguese (1988, 11). The colonial wars (1961–74) led to the end of the dictatorship in 1974; the Revolution of the Carnations threw Portugal out of its isolation and precipitated the end of the colonial empire. The abolition of censorship and the introduction of free speech, and the subsequent public circulation of ideas, triggered a renewed reflection on the national and cultural identity. Most intellectuals, attentive to social reality, had a critical attitude and felt ashamed: the colonial past and its great heroes were no longer spoken about. But nationalism and the old self-image have “made a comeback since the late 1990s” (Kuin 2007, 222) and the Portuguese feel once again proud of their country, as is evident in the rekindled interest in historical novels.

Impact on the literary field: youth literature As imagology studies have been proving since the last century, “it is in the field of literature that national stereotypes are first and most effectively formulated, perpetuated, and disseminated” (Leerssen 2007a, 26). Nevertheless, until recently university studies have paid scant attention to a vast segment of literature, namely children’s literature. However, in this field nationalism can manifest itself in a very powerful way, as childhood is an impressionable period in which children discover and assimilate a whole range of information that allows them to get to know their own culture. Books, as a mirror of the social environment, have an important formative impact: “when children read fiction they are exposed to the beliefs which inform and structure their society. The books encourage child readers to internalize particular ways of seeing the world” (Stephens 1992). Furthermore, children read more than adults do, and youth literature, more than adult literature, presupposes an “appreciative credit among the audience” (Leerssen 2007a, 26). Moreover, Maria Nikolajeva (1997, 7) observes that, in spite of the growing influence of global communication, youth literature is becoming more and more national. It no longer has an international character (folk and fairy tales, Robinson Crusoe, Winnie-the-Pooh) but tends to overemphasize native literature. As mentioned, the Salazar regime was extremely nationalistic and enforced a uniform vision of history. All children — in Portugal and in the colonies — had the same schoolbooks,

Self-images and hetero-images in Portuguese youth literature89 transmitting the same values of “God, Nation, and Family,” to prepare them to be proud of their ancient glory. Hence, the majority of children’s books became instruments of ideological formation and did not amount to much, barring a few exceptions: they were patriotic, moralizing, and hardly addressed the children’s world. Because of a profound distrust of foreign influences, knowledge of the Other was held back. The Revolution of 1974 lifted these restrictions and an explosion of books followed for young children and, something new, for (pre-)adolescents (1980s) and young adults (1990s): in twenty years (1974–94) some 265 novels for 9–10 year-olds and older were written by Portuguese authors. As this is the age when children begin to use reason and are eager for knowledge, those novels are highly interesting in terms of nationalistic tendencies: by what processes is national identity constructed in them? With the new focus on an older (adolescent and young adult) target readership, new genres surged, such as realistic and historical novels. Alice Vieira, with 14 youth novels between 1979 and 1994, is the major writer. The literary duo of Ana Maria Magalhães and Isabel Alçada attracts attention with a historical series Viagens no Tempo (Travels through time) and with Uma aventura (An adventure), a series of adventure-cum-mystery stories, a genre previously only known through translations of Enid Blyton (I am not concerned here with books for very young children, fairy tales, short stories, comics, poetry, or theater). Between 1982 and 1994 Magalhães and Alçada published 34 stories; in 2016 the total of Uma Aventura rose to 58. Because of their success, all publishers launched their own series of books with similar ingredients. Regarding the construction of national identity, it is the dynamics between hetero-images and self-images that is of interest (Beller 2007, xiv), so two fundamental questions arise. The first is whether the literary production of the period after 1974 continues to instill the same selfimage as previously, or do writers try to give another orientation to their histories, contributing to young Portuguese people looking at themselves with other eyes? The other question relates to examining how the Other is depicted, if the narratives reflect what is going on in the world, if they communicate a spirit of understanding of the Other. This aspect is essential because national identity defines itself almost always “with ourselves as point of departure, dividing culture into own and alien” (Nikolajeva 1997, 9). The “I” does not exist without the Other, identity and alterity go together.

Portugal’s self-image: time and history When analyzing books for 9–14 year-olds, one is immediately struck by the many allusions to Portugal’s history and culture, apparently part of everyday knowledge (Blockeel 2001). Of the 265 novels written between 1974–94, about 22 percent deal wholly or partly with these subjects. The presence of national topics is overwhelming, not only in historical novels, but also throughout realistic everyday life stories; readers are constantly reminded of Portugal’s past and culture, albeit mostly unconsciously. Magalhães and Alçada contributed a lot to this focus with both of their series. They initiated their historical books series Viagens no Tempo because immediately after 1974 school reforms had divested history classes of all national heroes and glory (demystification as condition for “desideologization”) and, as schoolteachers, they wanted to counterbalance this. Their fifteen novels take the characters on a journey to all the important sites in the history of

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Portugal, without the books appearing to be openly didactic. Their success inspired other series of historical novels: Contos da História (Tales of history), seven volumes by various authors and, for the very young, À descoberta com Gil e Inês (Discovering with Gil and Ines), by Glória Bastos. What has obviously disappeared in contemporary youth literature is the former glorifying manipulation of the past to serve the dictatorial present. Instead of the uniform version, some diverging versions of Portuguese history turned up, most noticeably in the periods and characters treated. This is the case with nineteenth- century liberalism, which was not treated before or was simply condemned. The pure biographies of Dante’s three perfecti, “Saints, Geniuses and Heroes,” which were promoted as models for youth literature, disappeared. If heroes turn up, they are seldom protagonists of the story, and if this occurs, it is often to demythologize them. Two of the conventional heroes linked with the former regime, Nuno Álvares Pereira and Henry the Navigator, almost disappear, and much less attention is paid to military events and institutional history. (Nuno Alvares Pereira had a decisive role in the 1383–85 crisis against Castile. Prince Henry the Navigator, 1394–1460, was responsible for the beginning of maritime expansion.) On the contrary, contemporary narratives focus on the living conditions and roles of the common men (and children), especially in moments of social and political turbulence. Thus there are always fictitious protagonists acting along with historical figures, in an attempt to give all social powers the place they deserve. Nevertheless, this more balanced look at history and the humanizing perspective does not prevent the imagined homeland from surfacing again and contributing to a renewed construction of national self-image. In fact, concerning the choice of mythical historic moments and figures, differences from the previous period are small, in spite of the return to heterogeneity. The independence of Portugal and the coming into being of its seaborne empire are still essential and the gallery of national stars is still alive, with the big difference that those popular figures are no longer the center of the plot. Some conservative narratives still insist on the glorious history, in which the hero is too harmoniously depicted to present any internal contradiction, and refer clearly to the most symbolic lieux de mémoire of Portuguese history. The Viagens no Tempo series, for instance, based on a project to bring young readers to discover history in a pleasant way and to initiate them into history using new pedagogic concepts of history teaching, uses a didactic discourse in which the “teachings” are well-timed, leading to a better knowledge of the circumstances of the period described. To cite a reader: “What we learn at school is often difficult to memorize, but what I have learned reading A visit to King Dinis’s court is difficult to forget.”1 Nevertheless, if it comes to building a national identity, the books do not really use an emancipatory discourse; the dominant ideology continues to be associated with values of heroism, patriotism, and the importance of the nation, which is invariably depicted as a seafaring nation. They tend to present a conservative vision that reproduces traditional attitudes and concepts, with an apologetic intention so as to inspire feelings of admiration. Evidence of this can be found in the opposition of self-image and hetero-images, and in the almost overt invitations to the reader to go and visit the locations described in the texts. There is only one author who is able to overcome these pitfalls: Alice Vieira. Her two historical novels really cast doubt on certain ways of being and on national conceptions, in a way that

1.

“Aquilo que aprendemos nas aulas às vezes é difícil de fixar. Mas aquilo que aprendi com ‘Uma Visita à Corte do Rei D. Dinis’ é difícil de esquecer” (Joana Andrade from Coimbra).

Self-images and hetero-images in Portuguese youth literature91 would certainly have earned censorship during the Salazar regime. Constant humor and irony deconstruct the former epic exaggeration and cast a normal and realistic light on the facts, which make the child readers feel involved in the story. Her “ironic turn” (Leerssen 2007b, 74) leads to a “multileveled playfulness” that does not, even once, detract from Portugal’s glory. She invites her readers to look at the world and to reflect upon what they see and hear; to think independently. She does not aspire to cancel the importance of bookish knowledge, considered very important in Portugal, but aims to create dialectic skills between this knowledge and the one you get from real experience. History for her is only a pretext for dealing with other things. One can conclude that contemporary youth literature no longer presents exacerbated nationalism as a goal to be achieved by reading and that writers want to present a more realistic vision of history. However, at the same time, barring Vieira’s novels, underlying national sentiments persist, leading to a strong empathy with the country, even though this happens in different ways, the one more conscious than the other. Maybe this is the reason why it took almost three decades before the Salazar period was introduced in youth literature.

Portugal’s self-image: setting As stereotypes “not only concern people (the exclusive focus of traditional imagology) but also concern places, landscapes, etcetera” (Beller 2007, 13), the self-image of a nation is also constructed by many elements, such as locations, scenery, food, religion, and occupations. Religion is almost absent in the youth novels of 1974–94, but a study of the references to food, considered by Hollindale, a major researcher of children’s literature, as an element of passive ideology (1992, 30), revealed their omnipresence: on average, food is mentioned every twelve pages. Showing a very positive culinary image (homemade food associated with happiness and harmony, for instance), youth literature unconsciously contributes to a strengthening of what is traditional and national, to the detriment of what is foreign, such as cornflakes and vegetarian food (Blockeel 1998). More significant than food are the narratives’ settings: Portugal as a geographical space is considered to be an essential part of youth literature, as only four out of the 265 novels (1974–94) are enacted abroad. Here also Magalhães and Alçada are pioneers. They created their version of the adventure-cum-mystery stories of Enid Blyton, Uma aventura, with the big difference that the Portuguese “police thrillers” almost invariably involve a specific Portuguese location, be it a castle, a museum, a mountain, a big city, or a small village. Only four foreign locations appear in the first 34 volumes of the series: France, Scotland, Cape Verde, and North-West Africa. In volumes 35–52 (1995–2009) Spain, Macau, Egypt, Thailand, the North Pole, and Brazil appear. Locations are sometimes even thematized in the books. The major aim was to offer young readers good reading material and reading pleasure; but it was also important to show them the essential character of their homeland, as well as the specificities of the different regions, the ways people live in less known places of the country. A great deal of supplementary background information is provided unobtrusively. More salient than in books by other writers, the sea figures as the real chronotope of Portugal’s self-image. In this series, seven of the first 34 stories are enacted at the seaside (the sea figures even more, on average, in Viagens no Tempo), and there is nearly always a way to introduce Portugal’s maritime past (Blockeel 2000). Written in a fluent style and using simple structures, these stories continue to enjoy tremendous success, having already sold several million copies.

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Their model was widely imitated by others: since the 1980s more than twenty-two series of “mass literature” for pre-adolescents have been published. Key publications include the 16 volumes of the 1001 detectives (Correia, Menéres, and Rocha) about stallholders selling their goods all over Portugal; the Labirinto (Labyrinth) collection of five stories set in Portuguese Madeira (Pereira); the 21 books of O Clube das Chaves (The club of the keys; Maia Gonzalez and Pedreira), which all have a historical or cultural object as a guideline for the detectives; and the 16 volumes of Triângulo Jota (Triangle J; Álvaro Magalhães), situated in the city of Oporto. Because of the abundance of real and verifiable facts, the diegetic world looks like a transposition of the empiric world the reader lives in. Consciously or unconsciously, the reality of the characters corresponds to that of the readers. All these novels contribute greatly to the recognition by the young reader of the real world in the literary world, and by doing so help to value the country’s patrimony and lead to a strong empathy with the country.

Hetero-images Through both time and setting, one of the main objectives of a large part of youth literature in Portugal seems to be to help young readers establish their Portuguese identity. It is true that this also happens in other literatures, but here it happens intensively. Every human culture can only position itself in comparison with other cultures: “the circumscription of cultural identity proceeds by silhouetting it against a contrastive background of Otherness” (Corbey & Leerssen 1991, vi). That is why the study of the representation of the other, of the otherness, of what is different, is indispensable when studying the identity of a certain culture. As José Mattoso, a leading Portuguese historian, remarks, awareness of being part of a particular country is rendered by the idea: “nós somos portugueses; os outros são estrangeiros” (1998, 13; We are Portuguese, the others are foreigners). It is thus important to study the images of those foreigners. As already mentioned, a large majority of the 1974–94 narratives deal with national settings: what young Portuguese could learn about other people and countries through reading was confined to a mere handful of books. To this shortage we have to add the fact that the stories with foreign settings almost never have a foreigner as protagonist. In general it is Portuguese youngsters who go to another country to undergo an exciting adventure before coming back home. In this way the reader is not given the possibility to identify with a young foreigner: he never gets the opportunity to enter the mind of the other. The first case in which this happens, is in Brasil! Brasil! (Magalhães & Alçada 1996), a narrative that depicts thoroughly the inner thoughts of three Brazilian youngsters. If one wants to study l’étranger tel qu’on le voit, the first condition is that he is present. And, in fact, his presence is very poor, and this is significant. Hollindale (1996, 40), in his study of ideology in children’s books, states that two of the important topics to consider are omission and invisibility. He claims that it is worth studying the people that do not exist in a story or that are only present at a lower, inferior human position, among which he mentions foreigners. In what follows, I describe first how Portuguese youth literature deals with Portugal’s neighbors, the Spaniards. Secondly I discuss the image of the other European countries as a whole. Lastly, I finish with the image of the former African colonies.

Self-images and hetero-images in Portuguese youth literature93 Spain As Peter Hoppenbrouwers (2007, 54) states, “there was almost insurmountable hostility from the start” between Portugal and Spain, due to Portugal’s breach of contract and its secession from its liege lord. From then onwards, Portugal had to resist Spain, as if it were David versus Goliath. This was very clear during two dynastic crises, first at the end of the fourteenth century, when small Portugal vanquished Castile and, later, at the end of the sixteenth century, when Portugal became part of Spain. The period in between was the golden age of Portugal. For sixty years (1580–1640) the Portuguese were ruled — “dominated” as they saw and still see it — by the Spanish kings, and this did not improve the relations between them. At the restoration of its independence, Portugal was economically impoverished, the power of its empire broken. Ever since, Portugal and Spain have lived with their backs to each other, except for Galicia, and there is little reciprocal interest. In both countries, but even more so in Portugal, it still appears as if a taboo prevents any discussion of this relationship. It is not surprising that historical Spain is very present in youth literature, in particular with respect to the three moments when Portugal had to assert itself against its dominant neighbor. This occurs in the books by Magalhães and Alçada, as well as in those by Alice Vieira. None of these authors attempts to undermine the justification of Portugal’s existence as a country in contrast to Spain. However, in trying to demystify the difficult relationship, they reveal two opposite points of view. Magalhães and Alçada give evidence of a very prudent attitude, notably in the following books: O Sabor da Liberdade (The taste of liberty, 1991) and Uma Aventura nos Açores (An adventure in the Azores, 1993). As if in an attempt at political correctness, they never write anything that could possibly hurt Spanish feelings. Almost nothing alludes to the tensions between the two populations. On the contrary, the authors put in a great effort to present the Spaniards as objectively as possible, never using depreciatory words or describing them in negative terms. They even choose an extremely sympathetic Spanish shopkeeper as a secondary character, and show many Portuguese people having good friends among the Spaniards. They dare to touch the topic of the national “genius” of both, one being of a more discrete and balanced temperament, the other more fiery and dynamic. Nonetheless, analyses of the discourse they use, the ways they present the plot, the narratologic tools they apply, clearly show that what is at stake is a valorization of all things Portuguese. Without being overtly negative about the Spaniards, their discourse guides the readers to position themselves on the Portuguese side, because the accent is fully on the heroic behavior of the Portuguese, on their courage and patriotism. In the contacts with Spain, what is Portuguese is clearly exalted, and the Spanish other is only a pretext to better position the Portuguese self. This is not the case in the two historical works of Alice Vieira. These novels are: A Espada do Rei Afonso (The sword of King Afonso, 1980), about the first king, and Este Rei que Eu escolhi (This king I chose, 1981), set during the 1383–85 crisis. The relationship with the Spaniards is also called to mind in Lote 12, 2° Frente (Allotment 12, 2° front, 1983) and in Promontório da Lua (The moon’s promontory, 1991). Vieira does not hide the feelings of antipathy that are still living in the collective memory of the Portuguese; on the contrary, she clearly and openly interprets the situations that caused the lack of understanding on both sides. She does not hesitate to call the Spaniards “the enemy,” because that was what they historically were. But at the same time, by

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using different narrative techniques and strategies in a subtle way, especially by using a discourse full of irony and humor, in which exaggerations undo the strong negative statements, Vieira relativizes these feelings and shows that they are unfounded and flow from irrational prejudices. She is a master in guiding the reader towards a clear perception of the circumstances, including the insight that the common Spaniard is not to blame for what the nobility and his masters ordered him to do, that he is suffering as much as the common Portuguese person, and that the Portuguese also have their share of responsibility for the situation. By doing so, Vieira renders the relation to Spain as naturally as possible, without embellishment or negation. Modern Spain, with its radically different way of living, nature, and culture, is, astonishingly, almost totally ignored in the juvenile literature of 1974–94, as if Portugal had no neighbor. Modern Spain is met in only one novel in this period, Chocolate à Chuva (Chocolate when it rains), a coming of age story written by Alice Vieira. The main character, Mariana, is all too happy to go on holiday to Spain, after her father painted in glowing terms the beauty of Andalusia with its many splendorous cultural cities. There is openness, positive feelings, and curiosity in her family; Mariana even starts to learn some Spanish, which most Portuguese find useless. However, she has to brave the indifference and disdain of others: her grandmother does not approve of the idea, alleging that Portugal is beautiful too; neither does one of her snobbish classmates who prefers France or Italy. But Mariana will not let her enthusiasm die, and when her best friend gets into trouble, the trip to Spain turns out to symbolize the end of Mariana’s childhood, and the happy beginning of her adolescence. The euphoric feelings of the two girls are transferred to the country they are going to visit, so the readers get a fairly positive idea of Spain, even if, on the other hand, the readers don’t pick up more about things Spanish, as the trip is not the subject of the novel. The first book situated in Spain, A Caminho de Santiago (On the way to Santiago), appeared in 1995 and was written by Ana Saldanha, a young writer who studied and worked abroad. She wrote the series Vamos viajar (Let’s go travel), five rather short novels, four of which are enacted outside Portugal (in Spain, France, Ireland, and England), although the protagonists continue to be Portuguese children. The same happens in Os Imbatíveis em Salamanca (The invincibles in Salamanca, 1995; Moniz Lopes and Madaíl) and in Uma Aventura em Espanha (An adventure in Spain, 1996), number 37 in the very popular series by Magalhães and Alçada. The first story is about a weekend excursion from Oporto to Santiago in the nearest Spanish region, Galicia, in which the family spends more time in Portugal than in Spain. Apart from some information about the apostle and the city, there are some conversations about the linguistic similarities between Galician and Portuguese, which were one language until the independence of Portugal. In Uma Aventura em Espanha, as in all the other volumes of the series, adventure and mystery prevail and so, about “the brother country,” the Portuguese reader only picks up the topics of the Spanish alegría (happiness), the food, the bullfights, the lively street animation, and a trip to the Giralda tower in Seville, although this is a good start. Os Imbatíveis em Salamanca, though not really an engrossing story, offers the most interesting aspects of Spanish life: apart from the inevitable stereotypes, some traditions that clearly differ in both countries are mentioned, such as the celebration of the feast of Epiphany. In addition, the mystery the protagonists solve involves the Spanish Civil War and its consequences up to now. The Portuguese often complain about the attitude of indifference of the Spaniards to all that happens beyond the frontiers that unite/divide both countries; they speak of ostentatious ignorance and even contempt. But it is also the fact that, for their part, almost all Portuguese

Self-images and hetero-images in Portuguese youth literature95 writers for young people also turn their back on Spain and act as if they had no neighbors, showing the same lack of interest in Spain. Or else this silence reveals, maybe, the Portuguese people’s difficulty in accepting serenely the relationship with their neighbor. To avoid the topic and keep silent seems to be the easy way.

Europe A lot has been written about the fact that the marginal geographical position in the extreme west of Europe has condemned Portugal to a certain isolation. This explains the “strange feeling of being in Europe without being Europe” (Prado Coelho) or as literary critic José Osório de Oliveira put it: “History kept us away from Europe and Geography keeps us far from her, while at the same time we do not belong to any other part of the world” (quoted in Coelho 1992, 34). With the exception of the sixteenth century, there never were many contacts with other European regions, except for some trade with England and Flanders. From the eighteenth century on, the few estrangeirados did what they could to “make Portugal more Portuguese by turning it more European,” but they clashed with the obstinate resistance of the traditionalists who were suspicious of all novelties from abroad. The five centuries of colonial empire culminated in forty years of imperialistic mysticism in the twentieth century. The orgulhosamente sós-attitude of Salazar (proudly on our own) certainly did not help foster the feeling of belonging to Europe and so most Portuguese people went on thinking of themselves more in Atlantic than in European terms. After the Revolution of the Carnations, Portugal went through a turbulent period in which it granted independence to all its so-called “overseas provinces” in Africa and Asia. This meant that the country was reduced to its European dimension: a rectangle in the west of Europe. There finally was a need to align with Europe. Youth literature furnishes proof that Portugal’s marginal position has indeed kept the country far removed from Europe and things European. It is baffling to see that Europe is almost totally absent from the juvenile literature in the first two decades of the democratic regime, as if Portugal were an island from which it is dangerous, or at least not at all interesting, to leave. Moreover, other European countries are only mentioned when there is a clear relation to Portugal, mostly with Portuguese history, as with the Napoleonic invasions. What is told about other countries and people serves to enhance what children learn at school about their history. Almost nowhere is there any attempt to understand the history and culture of the Other; the accent is purely on Portugal. A second remarkable element in the context of the study of the Other, is that the foreigners who appear in the narratives generally do not belong to a particular nationality. In most cases, all Europeans are treated alike, as tourists or as strangers, to the point of alluding to “the stranger,” who speaks a “foreign language” and lives “in foreign parts” (“O estrangeiro fala estrangeiro e vive no estrangeiro”). However, a Dutchman evokes a clearly different cultural code than does a German or a Frenchman and it is relevant to distinguish between the different nationalities with their singularities. Judging by the youth literature it seems as if, apart from Spain, the remainder of Europe constitutes only one group of people. The question remains in which way then, are Portuguese children acquainted with other European people and cultures? Since few Portuguese children travel outside their own country,

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most of them only know other Europeans as tourists on holiday (apart from what they see on television). In their reading material it appears to be the same. However, more than showing what the tourists are like, the comments about them reveal a mental attitude on the part of the Portuguese towards the others, and this attitude is very ambiguous. On the one hand, most narratives demonstrate that tourists are necessary as a source of much-needed income, tourism being an important economic sector which provides work for many Portuguese people. But on the other hand, tourists are depicted as fools: they don’t understand Portuguese, often bring along a lot of troubles, cannot be trusted, have strange habits totally unlike the Portuguese, and are thus better avoided. The attitude towards foreigners is one of impatience, mistrust, and even mockery. The message seems to be that tourists are to be tolerated purely because of their economic importance. This discourse is very surprising, as it does not match the warm welcome tourists generally experience when touring Portugal. The Portuguese are considered to be friendly and welcoming people. This proves Leerssen’s statement (2007a, 27) that the cultural context from which these images “originate is that of a discursive praxis, not an underlying collective, let alone a ‘national’ public opinion,” and that scholars should be wary of seeing in the images “a straightforward reflection of empirical real-world collectives.” The tourist, though often present, is mostly a background character; contacts are always short-lived and superficial, in artificial holiday situations where the Other is not in his own surroundings. Linked to the fact that other nations are mostly evoked in a historical context, it is obvious that the reader never gets a picture of how society in other countries is organized today, how youngsters there live, what their school life and culture look like, how they keep themselves busy in their free time, how climate has an influence on daily life, and so on. The young Portuguese reader is kept unaware of all this. One of the important functions of youth literature, namely to open the world to its readers, to broaden their view and horizon, is withheld. It is, hence, not surprising that geographic knowledge about Europe is really deficient, in view of the manifest mistakes found in the books. Moreover, negative remarks about the Other are often juxtaposed to a positive appreciation of what is Portuguese and, even worse, the image of the Other is colored in such a way that the reader feels suspicious of him and feels invited to make a mockery of him. Some ironic comments surely are given without malice, in a playful intent, but it becomes questionable when this is almost the only attitude towards the Other that the reader comes across in his reading. It is this recurrence, together with the near complete absence of relevant or positive remarks which is so surprising. It is known that stereotypes obtain their effectiveness because of their intertextuality, because they “obtain familiarity by dint of repetition” (Leerssen 2007a, 26), and that they “involve an a priori information deficit” (Beller 2007, 5). There is nothing against a joke about “northern tourists toasted like lobsters,” but how do Portuguese children understand that the summers up north are often worse than Portuguese winters, if this information is nowhere to be found? The Other is judged almost solely on differences and all too seldom as a source of enrichment. In the period 1974–94, only three narratives deal entirely with another European country. Two are from the series Uma Aventura, in which the five youngsters live their usual adventure with the difference that it is abroad. Although in Uma Aventura em Viagem (An adventure on journey, 1983) Scotland is only superficially characterized (by bagpipe players, kilts, and lakes with monsters), in Uma Aventura em França (An adventure in France, 1991) Magalhães and Alçada put in great effort to insert interesting elements of French life. In 1989 a strikingly realistic novel

Self-images and hetero-images in Portuguese youth literature97 was published, Alex, o amigo francês (Alex, the French friend) by Carlos Correia. It deals with the difficult life and the many problems of second-generation Portuguese emigrants in Paris, and paints a rather disheartening picture of France, where the protagonist feels discriminated against and despised. Nevertheless, when he returns to the Portuguese village of his parents, he cannot find his niche either. This story is one of the very few narratives that criticize Portuguese society, and for this reason alone it attracts attention. The situation of an absent Europe improves from 1995 on, with the publication of two series for children from the age of nine and older. Manuela Moniz Lopes and Cremilde Madaíl bridge the gap with the seven stories of the series Os Imbatíveis (The unbeatables), written between 1995 and 2001. These short mystery narratives are situated in Paris, Salamanca, London, Luxemburg, Brussels, Venice, and in the Black Forest, which the Portuguese protagonists visit as part of a school trip or to visit family that have emigrated to those places. The authors’ intention to give as many details as possible about the foreign locations is too obvious and hinders the fluency of the plot, but nevertheless, the stories broaden the horizon of the readers. The four short novels of the series Vamos Viajar (Let’s travel) by Ana Saldanha, written in a more fluent and literary style, are about the school trips and excursions of a Portuguese girl to France, England, Ireland, and Spain. Instead of stereotyped clichés, these stories offer some small curious facts and often insist on the importance of knowing other languages “to get a better insight into other ways of thinking.” Cultural differences are presented in a spontaneous way, without embellishing what is Portuguese, as too often happens.

Africa With its back turned to Spain, and suspicious of Europe, would Portugal then indeed have an Atlantic vocation? The children’s and juvenile literature from before 1974 includes a relatively large number of books situated in the overseas territories, with the main aim of instilling a sense of national greatness (Blockeel 1996). Strangely enough, it is almost impossible to detect anything from the colonial past in the more recent juvenile literature, until 1998, the year of the commemoration of the 500 years of Vasco da Gama’s voyage. Until then, the few evocations of that past view the historical relations with the colonies in light of the voyages of discovery, as was the case under the dictatorship. Books for younger children rarely convey knowledge about the indigenous populations on other continents. For adolescents, Magalhães and Alçada included in their historical series the following: A Terra Será Redonda? (Could the earth be round?, 1988) about the voyage of Diogo Cão; the excellent Brasil! Brasil! (1992) about the abolition of slavery in the nineteenth century; Tufão nos Mares da China (Typhoon in China’s seas, 1997); No Coração da África Misteriosa (In the Heart of mysterious Africa, 1998); and Viagem à Índia (Travelling to India, 2003). Apart from these historical novels, the former colonies seem to have disappeared from the literary map. There is no trace of contemporary Brazil. In the only story with an actual African setting, Uma Aventura nas Ilhas de Cabo Verde (An adventure in Cape Verde, 1990), it looks as if the authors (Magalhães and Alçada) forgot the otherness of the African; the book suggests no difference with the Portuguese. The African is not present, very little is told about his way of living, and although there is an appendix with information about the five islands the detectives

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visit, in the story itself adventure prevails over the cultural aspect. On the whole, one can say that the Angolan, the Guinean, and every other African are persons who are almost absent in youth literature, and if they appear, it is as background characters. On the other hand, the influx of African immigrants after independence resulted in a great number of blacks and other people of color in Portugal, so that they now constitute 16% of the population of Lisbon, and some schools in the capital have as many black pupils as white pupils (see Rocha-Trindade 1999 and Agualusa). Nevertheless, this is hardly noticeable in the juvenile literature: except for a few exceptions about the problem of growing racism in society — C. Correia, M. A. Menéres, and N. Rocha, O Mistério da Marioneta Assassina (The mystery of the killer marionette, 1989), M. do Carmo Rodrigues, A Mensagem Enigmática (The enigmatic message, 1993), A. Honrado, Os Caçadores de Cabeças (The headhunters, 1995) — there are no black characters or other people of color, and if there are, they are not dealt with in depth. An exception is Uma Questão de Cor (A matter of color, 1995) by Ana Saldanha, with a plot combining integration of immigrants, rejection of racism, respect for the Other, and the end of SouthAfrica’s apartheid, without overtly moral or didactic preoccupations. António Lobo Antunes, the Portuguese writer who used the colonial wars as a subject in many of his novels for adults, wrote a striking short story, A História do Hidroavião (The history of the hydroplane, 1994) about a homesick African in Lisbon, wasting away from grief. Portugal is very proud of its past mestizo policy, but the juvenile literature ignores the typical multicultural character of Lisbon. With respect to the historical relations with the colonies, three important elements are conspicuously absent: the pioneering role that Portugal played in the slave trade (barring Brasil! Brasil!), the colonial wars Portugal fought in Africa for 13 years, and the civil wars and occupations following independence in certain former colonies. While there are a few references to colonial wars, these are in the context of emigration or of the personal tragedies befalling the conscripts, but never from the point of view of the black freedom fighters. Only in 2003 was a book published about the civil war in an African country, without any Portuguese character intervening. Comandante Hussi (Major Hussi) tells the story of young Hussi who is forced by circumstances to protect his family and to go fighting. This Gulbenkian Award-winning book was written by the Cape Verdean author Jorge Araújo, which brings us back to the finding that the Portuguese have difficulties both in imagining a world other than their own and leaving their own borders. Luckily, Portugal is a hospitable country, in that all the former African colonies publish there, not having their own companies, which means that Comandante Hussi is as easily available as any other book and is almost considered Portuguese. But all this confirms the vision of historian Isabel Castro Henriques (1999, 10–18), that Portuguese society still cannot really cope with its colonial past in Africa.

Concluding remarks Portugal’s self-image, based on its seafaring past, the discoveries and the greatness of its colonial empire, was exaggerated during the Salazar regime and instilled into people’s minds by all possible and authoritarian means. No wonder that after the dramatic changes of 1974 and the loss of the colonies in 1975, the Portuguese have been looking hard for their own identity. Their first attitude was one of shame, which led to drastic educational reforms, in a way that led several

Self-images and hetero-images in Portuguese youth literature99 writers, astonished by how little knowledge young Portuguese people had of their own history and culture, to speak of a “lost generation.” The literary duo Magalhães and Alçada overcame this by writing successful novels in which children learn about their own identity and culture: “It is now fashionable not to speak about certain heroes of Portuguese history. That is perfect nonsense! History is much more easily understood when populated by real people,” says one of their protagonists (Magalhães & Alçada 1985, 105). Literature is a privileged field for the dissemination of images, and youth literature even more so, due to its larger formative impact on the reader and because until the age of 15 one reads much more than in adult life. Youth literature contributes a lot to the construction of a collective memory. Has this memory undergone any change since 1974? Did the self-image undergo a less ideological twist? Not really. Time and setting both contribute to the maintenance of the former self-image. Even if authors are no longer subject to the ideological constraints that distorted history, half of the huge historical production still suffers from a benign retelling of events in order to give them a more human face. The presence of national topics is overwhelming, not only in historical novels, but also throughout realistic everyday life stories; readers are constantly reminded of Portugal’s past and culture, albeit mostly unconsciously. All this leaves very few opportunities to offer images of the Other: not only is he almost absent, but if he turns up, it is mostly in stereotyped terms. His culture is often represented as inferior to the Portuguese culture, and it is as if his presence serves to embellish what is Portuguese, as if there existed the need to enhance the value of one’s own country, although in most cases this is clearly done unconsciously. Portuguese youth books are no flying carpets to other countries. On top of that comes the fact that very few of the present-day classic youth books are translated from other languages into Portuguese. This prevents young Portuguese readers from transcending boundaries and understanding the Other, which is one of the largest contributions that literature can provide in the discovery of Self. In this, Portuguese juvenile literature is radically different from that prevailing in other western countries. The inability to see the Other as an equivalent partner, to deal with the relation between “us” and “them” in a balanced way, is undoubtedly partly a legacy of the indoctrination by the previous regime. There are reasons to be hopeful, as there has been a clear improvement and evolution towards more openness since the 1990s. The few books that pay greater attention to Europe or the former colonies all date from the last decade, when as many books about other cultures appeared as in the preceding twenty years. All this, of course, does not imply that there are no good youth books being written in Portugal. Alice Vieira, for example, is an excellent writer and has already been nominated on several occasions for the H. C. Andersen prize. However, that does not detract from the fact that as a whole, the discourse of Portuguese juvenile literature is ethnocentric, and does not invite its readers to be curious about what is taking place beyond the borders of their own country. Quite to the contrary, it reinforces the national self-image and the stereotyped Other.

Regional images and the struggle for life in Madrilenian literature Enrique Fernández Rivera The regional stereotypes of the Iberian Peninsula Following the tenets of the literary discipline of imagology, this article studies not the content or veracity of national images or stereotypes — the British are phlegmatic, stubbornly insular, etc. — but the mechanics or grammar of how they are used in literary texts (Leerssen 2000, 271 & 2007a, 27). Namely, this chapter explores the use of stereotypes associated with the inhabitants of the smaller territorial partitions into which the two nation-states of the Iberian Peninsula, Spain and Portugal, are subdivided. These partitions can be labeled as regions in cases such as Andalucia, Asturias, or Aragon, which have local languages deemed to be dialects of Castilian and lack a historical tradition of political independence. However, other partitions in the Iberian Peninsula, such the Basque area, Catalonia, and Galicia, may qualify as nations without a state given that they have their own language and a tradition of independence. Even the use of the term “Iberian Peninsula” is not completely accurate, since the Basque and Catalan ethnic territories spill into France. Also, islands such as the Azores or the Balearic and the Canary Islands are considered regions of Portugal and Spain in spite of being many miles away from the mainland. With all of these caveats in mind, for reasons of practicality I will continue to use the labels “region,” “regional images,” or “regional stereotypes” throughout this essay in spite of their insufficiency and inaccuracy. The long and multifaceted history of the Iberian Peninsula has resulted in many regions with identities strong enough to have developed regional images, many of which are still common knowledge among the population at large (Sangrador García 1981). However, the study of regional stereotypes is complex, more complex than the study of the national stereotypes. While the states are only a few and their historical identities are relatively stable, regions are many and historically unstable. Nation-states, have clear borders and identities that do not change easily. Many of them, such as Spain and Portugal, have survived with unchanged borders for over five hundred years. On the other hand, regions tend to suffer periodical reshufflings as the results of administrative subdivisions, amalgamations, and changes in names and borders, or they may be affected by depopulation. To mention an example, sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Spanish literature contains many references to the montañeses, a denomination that included the inhabitants from the mountainous regions of today’s Asturias, Santander, and northern León. They were seen as the direct descendants of the original Spaniards who did not mix with the Muslim invaders of the Peninsula, as well as people of noble origin (Herrero García 1966, 226). Today, the denomination montañeses applies only to the inhabitants of Santander. The attribute of racial purity has been subsumed in the individual stereotypes of the three separate regions with different nuances in each case, and the attribute of their noble descent is lost. Similarly, the content of the regional images may change through time. For instance, in sixteenth-cenruy literature Asturians are often characterized as people with solid necks, a trait that is absent in their current regional image (Herrero García 1966, 238). However, new features have been added to the regional image doi 10.1075/chlel.29.10riv © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Regional images and the struggle for life in Madrilenian literature101 of Asturians. For instance, since the Spanish Second Republic (1931–39) Asturians have had an image of leftist revolutionaries prone to violence. Another complicating factor for the study of regional imagery is that regions are often subdivided into smaller sub-regions, which may have developed their own images. In Andalucia, the happy Sevillians have a very different image than that of the serious inhabitants of Granada. This fragmentation can appear even within cities at the level of districts, such as in the predominantly Gypsy Albaicín district in Granada. Although similar complications are present in the study of national images, they are more stable, and their all-encompassing nature precludes the need to pay attention to the regional images that exist within the country. Finally, another difficulty in the study of regional prototypes is that the intricacies of regional imagery are invisible beyond the borders of a country or nation state. Regional subtleties fade under the blinding brightness of the national image and, consequently, regional images rarely register in foreign literatures. Madrilenian literature, a unique vantage point for the study of regional images To get a meaningful snapshot of the multifaceted ever-changing reality of regional images, a vantage point needs to be found that is close enough as to permit us to scrutinize the details but, at the same time, offers a panoramic view. We think that Madrilenian literature is this vantage point. The vast corpus of writing, extending over several centuries, which constitutes Madrilenian literature has the constant trait of including characters that have come to the city from all over the Iberian Peninsula. Very often these regional characters are mere sketches of backward country folks in the big city. The stereotypes of the stubborn Aragonese or the calm Galician provide readymade outlines for paletos and provincianos (hicks and small-town people) who walk through the Gran Vía in awe, ready to be duped by swindlers. This chapter will study the regional characters in Madrilenian literature who are not these hackneyed stereotypes but fully developed characters whose construction includes facets of the regional imagery that have been reworked into new combinations and meanings. For this task, some of the most important Madrilenian novels of the late nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century will be enlisted: several novels by Benito Pérez Galdós and Pío Baroja, Cela’s La colmena (The hive, 1945–46) and Martín-Santos’s Tiempo de silencio (Time of silence, 1962). An introductory study of an earlier text by the costumbrismo-period writer Mesonero Romanos will be included. In these highly representative texts, the struggle for financial survival serves as the pervasive background for much of the action, and the characters’ regional origins contribute to their success or failure. Madrilenian literature is generally understood as the collection of texts in which the city of Madrid and its inhabitants play an important role as background for the action, independently of the origin of the author (Lacarta 2002; Moral 1991; Sainz de Robles 1973). Actually, many of the most famous writers in Madrilenian literature were not born in Madrid; among the authors whose works we will examine in this study, only Mesonero Romanos was born in Madrid. The rest came from all over the Iberian Peninsula: Pío Baroja was Basque, as was Martín-Santos; Cela was Galician; Galdós was not even from the Iberian Peninsula properly speaking, since he came to Madrid from the Canary Islands. This variety of origins makes of Madrilenian literature a compendium of the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula. Unfortunately, for reasons that we will point out later, Portuguese writers are conspicuously absent.

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The more than one hundred years (1860s to 1960s) that these novels cover also coincide with the period of transformation of Madrid from a relatively small city into a metropolis. These years are also characterized by a continuum of underdevelopment, poverty, and social struggle that was exacerbated by population growth. Since the 1960s, when the most recent novel we are studying was published, Madrid has grown even faster, with the arrival of regional immigrants. However, the use of distinctive regional characters in Madrilenian literature seems to have declined, probably because regional differences became less conspicuous due to the modernization and homogenization that have affected the Iberian Peninsula and most of the world. Since the 1980s, Madrid has entered into a completely new dynamic of internationalization in which the massive arrival of immigrants from Latin America, Africa, and Eastern Europe has substantially changed the traditional makeup of the city. This unprecedented change, which is still in progress, has altered the previous landscape of a relatively small, parochial city in which the immigrants’ tamed otherness was limited to their origins just a few hundred kilometers away from Madrid.

Madrid’s peculiar history and the presence of regional characters The constant presence of regional characters in Madrilenian literature reflects the continuous influx of immigrants to the city and the important role they have played in its social fabric. This abundance and importance is related to the peculiar, artificial way in which Madrid became the capital of Spain in the sixteenth century. The election of a city as the capital of a nation is often the result of a large historical process that results in an implicit agreement that anoints the city as the “natural” capital. Just to mention two examples, Paris and London are so strongly associated with the national history of France and England that their status as respective capitals goes unquestioned. This is not the case with other cities, such as Bonn, Brasilia, or Ottawa, that were made capitals as the result of an artificial process that took place late in the history of their respective countries. This is also the case of Madrid, originally a forgotten town in La Mancha until Philip II decided to settle his court there in 1562. Madrid did not have any special historical significance to deserve this honor. Many other cities could have presented stronger cases since they had served previously as the capitals of the separate kingdoms of the Peninsula. The neighboring city of Toledo had been the court since the times of the Visigoth kings. Valladolid was also a centrally-located important city, close to many traditional commercial routes. Cities like Seville, Barcelona, La Coruña — even Lisbon during the years in which Spain and Portugal were unified — were important ports that could have served best the imperial politics of the period. However, Madrid was chosen. The only objective advantages Madrid — often defined as a mere outpost of Toledo in the Reconquest — offered were its location, in the geographical center of the Peninsula, and a relatively mild climate, especially compared to the sultry summers of Toledo (Sainz de Robles 1987). Whatever the reasons may have been for the settlement of the court in Madrid in 1562, this initially temporary arrangement became permanent. Madrid even became the capital of the entire Iberian Peninsula when, in 1580, Portugal was annexed to the Spanish crown by Philip II, who took advantage of the dynastic crisis opened when the Portuguese King Sebastian died without a successor. This situation would only last until 1640, when Portugal regained independence. It was only during those sixty years of union between the two countries that Portuguese

Regional images and the struggle for life in Madrilenian literature103 characters abounded in Madrilenian — and Spanish — literature. For instance, the Spanish classical theater — a genre that originates in Madrid and is also the first genre to represent Madrid (Sainz de Robles 1981, 10) — abounds in characters that are part of Portuguese nobility. They are presented as sharing some typical Spanish national features, such as arrogance and courage, as well as some regional features that they share with the Galicians, such as a predisposition towards romantic suffering. After this initial period, the Portuguese characters practically disappeared from the Madrilenian literature, as well as from the imaginary of Spanish literature, in spite of some isolated efforts to emphasize the presence of Portugal and the Portuguese in Madrid (Sanz García 1992). This ignorance, which is reciprocated in Portugal, is best put by Galdós in one of the chronicles of voyages that he published at the beginning of the twentieth century: “For centuries, Portugal has been equally unknown to the Spaniards as Spain to the Portuguese. We have been like two neighbors who live in the same building separated by a wall, very unfriendly to each other, to the point of not paying a visit or even saying hello.”1 This is very true in the Madrilenian novels we are studying, only one Portuguese character is mentioned: a Portuguese woman listed as one of the many foreign prostitutes in a Madrilenian brothel in La colmena (Cela 2001, 230). The unexpected promotion of a sleepy big town in La Mancha to the category of capital of an empire, its previous lack of historical weight within the Iberian Peninsula, and its geographical isolation in the middle of an inhospitable plateau, made of Madrid an empty shell that needed people from the Peninsula to properly fulfill the functions of a capital. This original feeling of Madrid as a tabula rasa needing to be filled has survived over the centuries as one of its essential characteristics. Even today, Madrid’s folklore and institutional slogans often present an open city in which newcomers are always welcome. On the negative side, Madrid has been perceived by the rest of the Peninsula, especially by the more industrialized areas of Catalonia and the Basque territories, as a city that lives on the taxes and other impositions on the rest of the Peninsula (Rivière 1996; Chueca Goitia 1951, 41–42). This is reinforced by the reality that Madrid is not self-sufficient and has always required all of its daily supplies to be imported from distant areas of the Peninsula. This essential emptiness of Madrid has not impeded the formation of a traditional Madrilenian stereotype. As a matter of fact, there are two Madrilenian stereotypes. The first is the stereotype of the Madrilenians as chulapos, manolas, violeteras and other similar popular characters. These stereotypes originate from real human types that were made extremely popular beyond their original time frame by eighteenth- and nineteenth-century light theatrical genres, such as the sainetes (one-act farce) and the zarzuelas (traditional Spanish operetta). Their sassiness and wittiness have been institutionalized as quintessentially Madrilenian in spite of the fact that they represent only residents of certain districts in which, due to patterns of immigration, the gracefulness of the Andalucians and the seriousness of the Castilians combined (Simón Díaz 1988, 570). The second stereotype of the Madrilenian is the more generic image of the dwellers of a big city as people who are so used to its hectic life that nothing can affect them. Although this image shares some characteristics with the previous stereotype, it is less picturesque and more generic, since its main feature is the jadedness attributed to all dwellers of big cities by Georg Simmel (1995). 1.

“Durante siglos, Portugal ha sido tan desconocida para los españoles como España para los portugueses. Hemos sido dos vecinos de una misma casa separados por un tabique, y bastante huraños ambos para no cambiar una visita, ni siquiera un saludo” (Pérez Galdós 1961c, 1604; my translation).

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The struggle for life, a constant theme in Madrilenian literature Often Madrilenians are perceived as people who graciously have decided not to take part in the struggle of the newcomers who compete among themselves for pre-eminence and triumph; instead, they choose to play the role of amused spectators of this frenzy (Chueca Goitia 1974, 23). This vision is encapsulated in the metaphor of Madrid as a theatre, stage, or arena, which has been common since the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries (Sainz de Robles 1981). Equally common and old is the image of Madrid as a labyrinth (like that of Crete); a Babel-like place of confusion where people of diverse origins endlessly run through the urban maze (Simón Díaz 1961, 1–4). Another common image, clearly connected to the previous, is that of new arrivals as hordes trying to assault or conquer Madrid (Gómez Porro 2000; Moral 1991, 106–81). Of course, not all of Madrilenian literature is permeated by these images, nor are they exclusively Madrilenian. Many works of Madrilenian literature do not reflect this ambience, while urban novels in other literatures do. But, for our purposes, what counts is the abundance of texts in Madrilenian literature in which a vast array of regional characters are involved in this struggle for life. Among these texts, we are concentrating on some novels from the second part of the nineteenth century and the first part of the twentieth. Although evidently many changes took place in Madrid in the time span in which these novels were written, the common denominator is a background of financial difficulties, even of scarcity. These novels reflect a vision of Madrid as an incipiently industrialized city in which much of the population — native and immigrant — has to surmount extreme financial difficulties (Moral 2001, 47–138; Ugarte 1990). Madrid as the court has practically disappeared in these novels, with the anecdotal exception of Galdós’s La de Bringas (The spendthrifts, 1884), which takes place in the small citadel of servants who live on the upper floor of the Royal Palace. The vision of Madrid as the center of political power is still very present. It clearly manifests in characters such as Hermenegildo Segovia, in La colmena, who comes to Madrid exclusively to force his appointment into a minor administrative position in his hometown (Cela 2001, 89). But in these novels Madrid is mostly the place that offers possibilities for financial survival, even for success, in an impoverished backward country whose centuriesold poverty only worsened in the twentieth century with the devastation of the Civil War and the subsequent dictatorship. Financial difficulty, lack of housing, social injustice, and an ineffectual yet repressive administration are the background for these novels. Baroja’s El árbol de la ciencia (The tree of knowledge, 1911) has a chapter entitled “Universal cruelty,” in which life in this society is compared to a hunting ground that replicates at the human level the survivalist instinct of microorganisms and animals (Baroja 1974, 123–24). Equally, this vision is encapsulated in the title of his trilogy La lucha por la vida (The struggle for life, 1904). A similar ambiance of anonymity and blind struggle for survival is implicit in Cela’s title La colmena, in which myriad characters ignore each other as they try to survive in impoverished post-Civil War Madrid. Although not so much in the title, Martín-Santos’s Tiempo de silencio also contains a similar image in its first pages, which take place in a lab in which mice are used for experimentation. In fact, an image of lab mice was on the cover of the novel’s first edition.

Regional images and the struggle for life in Madrilenian literature105 Madrid, the hostel or pension of Spain Another metaphor of Madrid also common since the inception of its literature is that of a hostel, pension, or boarding house in which people from all parts of the Peninsula are lodged (Simón Díaz 1961, 4). This image reflects the reality of a city where many establishments have always existed to accommodate temporary visitors and new arrivals. Many guests are business people and sales representatives, others come to Madrid to accelerate the slow pace of the bureaucracy that is dealing with their interests. Longer stays are required by those who come to complete studies that are not offered in their hometowns, or to pass accreditation exams that are regularly offered by the pertinent academic or professional colleges. In some cases, those living in these establishments are immigrants in their first days in Madrid, or those unable to afford their own residence, who are compelled to remain in humble pensions indefinitely. A good instance of how Madrilenian literature uses this kind of scenario is the text La posada o España en Madrid (The inn, or Spain in Madrid), published in 1839 by the patriarch of Madrilenian costumbrismo Ramón Mesonero Romanos. This is a short narrative that deserves attention because it contains, in an embryonic format, the principal features we will encounter in the novels: different regional characters have come to compete in Madrid for a financial goal, and their regional specificity is a major factor in the way they face the competition. In Mesonero Romanos’s story, the owner of a Madrilenian inn, the Parador de la Higuera (the Inn of the Fig), has decided to retire. He calls a public auction to find the best bidder for the lease of his inn. Most of the story is the detailed description of the picturesque characters that come from many points of Spain to bid. The tone of the narration is cheerful. The auction is presented as one of the amusing disputes between the Gods of Olympus so common in the literatures of Antiquity and the Renaissance, in which, after each deity has made his or her point, Zeus has to reach a veredict. In Mesonero Romanos’s story, the role of Zeus is played by the aged but not very regal figure of the inn’s owner, Tío Cabeza II (Uncle Head II), who, like a monarch, inherited his position from his father, Tío Cabeza I. The humorous tone of the story is enhanced by the many echoes of the famous episode in which Don Quixote took a humble inn in La Mancha for a castle and the innkeeper for the lord of the castle. The bidders are regional stereotypes or, as the narrator calls them, “figures whose clothes and manners announced their diverse origins” (Mesonero Romanos 1986, 174). The good and bad characteristics of their original regions show up in their speeches and behaviors when they try to convince the owner that they will be the best tenant. Although the characters are regional stereotypes, we are given so many details about their personal lives that they become distinct individuals. This is the case with the first suitor, who was a member of a platoon of seasonal harvesters from Galicia. After finishing his work for the season, he went to Madrid, where a lottery ticket he bought happened to be the winner of a substantial prize. Following the image of Galicians as homesick people, his first intention is to return to his home region to invest the money in fields and cows. Also following the stereotype of the Galicians as being very careful with their money, he is considering the acquisition of property in Madrid since — also according to the image of the mistrustful Galician — he is afraid that the fame of his fortune may have spread and thieves will be waiting for him on his way home. The other bidders are also regional stereotypes that represent common figures in the period in Madrid: a wine trader from Toledo and similar businessmen from Catalonia, Andalucia, Extremadura, and Valencia, Maragatería,

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and one from Ávila, which is considered to represent Old Castile. As can be seen from this list of stereotypes, not all the Iberian regions are represented — no Portuguese bidder, for instance — and some of the regions, like the Maragatería region in present day León, represent stereotypes that have faded or have been subsumed within other denominations. The characters’ distinctive clothes are pointed out by the narrator and most of their interventions are transliterated in the language or dialect of their regions or, at least, shown to be gingered with plenty of local expressions. Some of the stereotypical virtues and defects of their home regions are manifest in how they face the auction. As expected, the serious and businessoriented Catalan, whose financial situation is very solid, is the opposite of the Andalucian, a very gracious but penniless young man who is only trying his luck at the auction because he cannot make a substantial offer. With the exception of this Andalucian character, whose reason for being in Madrid is an amorous pursuit, all the other bidders are in the city as a direct consequence of their commercial or professional activities in supplying Madrid markets with wine, meat, and other products that they bring from their respective regions. For them, to acquire the inn would be the way to definitely settle in Madrid. At the end of the story, it is neither the highest offer nor the intrinsic personal values of a given bidder that makes the innkeeper decide to whom he will transfer the inn. The deciding factor is a parallel romantic plot that has been unfolding without the narrator telling the readers until this point. It happens that the innkeeper has an adoptive daughter who is entitled to a part of the inn, where she works as a cook. Following the Don Quixote leitmotiv, she is presented in burlesque terms as a combination of the daughter of the owner of a castle and as one of the rough servants of the Cervantine inns. Her existence had been secretly revealed to the Old Castilian bidder by the ironsmith — probably an Old Castilian too — who works in the yard of the inn and is ironically assimilated to Vulcan by a scar in the shape of the letter “U” on his forehead caused by an Asturian mule’s kick. The ironsmith informed the Old Castilian suitor that the key to obtaining the lease of the inn is to court the young woman. Consequently, while the other characters were presenting their cases in the yard in front of the owner, the Old Castilian surreptitiously climbed the stairs to the kitchen and successfully wooed the young woman, who accepted his marriage proposal. By the time the auction had ended, she had announced her decision to her stepfather. He complied with her decision and awarded the lease to the Old Castilian bidder. This romantic twist puts an unexpected end to the story. As noted above, in spite of its simplicity and conventionality, this brief text by Mesonero Romanos contains the basic elements that we will see fully developed in the novels: the inn serves both as the Madrilenian location that gathers all the regional characters and as the object of desire that attracts them from all over the Peninsula; some regional images are used by the author to explain their interactions and to create the desired effects in the general plan of the story, in this case mostly to amuse the reader. Another feature that interests us here is how the regional specificity of the characters has a clear financial component that links them back to their home regions while, at the same time, making them come to Madrid to prosper. Finally, the success of one of the regional stereotypes in acquiring the inn is not merely attributed to the virtues implied in his regional image but to a more complex combination of factors among which regional origin is only one.

Regional images and the struggle for life in Madrilenian literature107 The struggle for life in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Madrilenian novels Similar elements, although more fully developed, can be found in the novels of the late nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century that we are using in this study. Unlike Mesonero Romanos’s text, these novels avoid presenting the characters of regional origin as speaking in their regional languages or dialects, or even using regional expressions. This avoidance is probably part of a tendency in the novels to stay away from the picturesque and quaint, which are considered trivializing concessions that distract the reader from the central issues of the novels, especially their social content. When the interventions of regional characters are transcribed, as it is often the case in Tiempo de silencio, the deviations from standard Castilians are argotic expressions that reveal their low social extraction, not their region of origin. Similarly, although occasional references to country hicks in the city can be found in these novels, as in Baroja’s La busca, all references to their typical regional dress are absent (Baroja 1970, 90 & 132). These novels prefer to inform the readers of the characters’ regional origins directly: just a few paragraphs after having introduced a character into the novel, the authorial voice gives a brief biographical sketch that includes information about a character’s origin and how and why he or she is in Madrid. Also unlike Mesonero Romanos’s uncomplicated story, these novels are long intricate texts that display complex characters. Equally complex and diverse are the styles of the novels, which range from the naturalism-realism of Galdós to the use of experimental anti-realist techniques in Tiempo de silencio. Independently of their style, all of them can be qualified as “modern” novels in the sense that the characters are psychologically developed as unique individuals whose actions and motivations are analyzed by the authors. In this process, the regional images are entangled in complex relations with other life conditions in every case, creating idiosyncratic, non-stereotyped characters. The regional origins of characters are presented in these novels as one among several conditioning factors behind the ups and downs of their fortunes in Madrid. For instance, poverty is a common condition imposed by the native land on the characters. Having to come to Madrid, no matter from where, is often presented as a sign of being in financial need. This is the case of the two indigent boys Zarapicos and Gonzalete in Galdós’s La desheredada (The disinherited, 1881). Of them we are only told that one came into the city through the southern gate and the other through the northern gate, as if their specific origin did not matter, only their poverty (Pérez Galdós 1976, 64). In other cases, the characters bring to Madrid a more complex baggage of destitution and misery. In La colmena, Elvirita carries with her a long line of poverty that starts with her humble birth in Burgos, a father who was executed for killing her mother, and her subsequent running away with a brutal Asturian peddler whom she later abandoned to join a brothel in Orense. The last station of her miserable roaming through different parts of the Peninsula is her arrival in Madrid, where she survives as an undercover prostitute (Cela 2001, 22). The same novel includes an extract of the files the police keep on two homosexual characters. Among other data, the files contain information about their origins in the opposite extremes of the Peninsula, as if implying that their move to Madrid allowed them to fulfill the depravity that was dormant when they were isolated in their home towns (Cela 2001, 103). Another negative condition that being an immigrant carries with it in these novels is an inability to adapt to the lifestyle in the big city. This unfavorable condition can be stated directly by the narrative voice, or by other characters who mock the regional characters. In La colmena, the

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cruel owner of the cafe that serves as the scene for part of the action often abuses her employees by alluding to their rural origin as “[e]l pelo de la dehesa” (Cela 1990, 132; “farmyard smell,” Cela 2001, 10) and connecting it to what she sees as their underperformance on the job. In Tiempo de silencio, the anxiety of being perceived as a country hick is stated in the following lines in which contradictory discourses are entwined as a flow of consciousness: “A man here is no longer a villager, no longer looks as though he is from the village. No one would identify him as a villager. It would have been better if he had never come from the village” (Martín-Santos 1989, 14).2 The anxiety of being new in the city often manifests in the immigrants’ tendency to establish a hierarchy of seniority among themselves. For instance, in Tiempo de silencio Amador makes it clear on several occasions that his friend Muecas is from a small town, unlike himself, who is very proud of having been born in Madrid, although actually he was born in the outskirts of Madrid to first generation immigrants (Martín-Santos 1989, 29). Sometimes this hierarchy is established in more subtle ways, as when in La colmena two immigrant brothers decide to go out to enjoy Madrid’s nocturnal life and one of the brothers asks the other to become the leader in the expedition because he has lived in the city the longest (Cela 2001, 227). In some cases, the generational hierarchy is clearly trumped by seniority in Madrid. In El árbol de la ciencia, a Catalan father and his son living in Madrid often discuss politics. The father is always defeated by his son because they argue in Castilian and the son is more fluent in the language (Baroja 1974, 20). The mastery of Castilian is a determining factor in the hierarchy of assimilation to the city. In La colmena, a Catalan young man who is supposed to be studying in Madrid to become a notary spends most of his time in amorous pursuits. Every time his impatient father comes to visit him from Barcelona, the son manages to convince him with high-flown expressions in Castilian he has learnt in Madrid that he must keep paying for his studies (Cela 2001, 117). In the same novel, a police officer and a night guard talk to each other in Castilian every time they meet, in spite of both of them being Galician immigrants, as if to prove each other that they are not country hicks (Cela 2001, 149). To be in Madrid but from a region of the Iberian Peninsula is not always negative. Quite the contrary, it can be very positive and fruitful in tangible financial terms. The equation between being from a small town and wealth or relative abundance is very frequent in La colmena. This novel depicts life during the scarcity and hunger of post-Civil War Madrid, which was a period when the countryside and the small towns were at an advantage because their agricultural activity allowed their inhabitants direct access to food. In this situation, to have roots in a town or rural area was important for those living in Madrid, because it often entailed food remittances from the relatives and friends who had been left behind. In Tiempo de silencio this is parodied as a near-feudal right to receive rent from one’s fiefs in far away towns. When the doctor goes to visit Muecas in his miserable hut, Muecas offers him lemonade: “‘I have those lemons sent to me from the village,’ lied Muecas with the tone of a landowner with far-off estates” (Martín-Santos 1989, 48).3 In some cases the relations of the regional characters with their home region assumes a 2.

“[Q]ue el hombre —aquí— ya no es de pueblo, que ya no pareces de pueblo, hombre, que cualquiera diría que eres de pueblo, y que más valdría que nunca hubieras venido del pueblo porque eres de pueblo, hombre” (Martín-Santos 1988, 19).

3.

“Estos limones me los mandan del pueblo —mintió Muecas con la voz de terrateniente que administran lejanos intendentes” (Martín-Santos 1988, 60).

Regional images and the struggle for life in Madrilenian literature109 modern commercial form. La colmena presents regional characters who live in Madrid but whose source of wealth is small businesses in their original towns, like Fidel, who owns a confectioner’s shop in Huesca (Cela 2001, 185). In Galdós Fortunata y Jacinta (Fortunata and Jacinta, 1886–87), Pedro Manuel de Jáuregui is an intermediary between the city and his native rural area of León, where many farmers trust him with their produce to sell in Madrid (Pérez Galdós 1986, 288). This connection is not exclusively with the countryside or a small town. The Catalan student in Madrid we have seen in La colmena is subsidized by his father from Barcelona, who seems to own a factory there (Cela 2001, 117). Sometimes the characters’ origins outside Madrid result in a distinctiveness that is clearly beneficial in the struggle for life. Often, the mere fact of being an immigrant, irrespective of place of origin, is presented as a sign of strong character, gumption, and other values that eventually translate into financial success. Señor Ramón in La colmena is a perfect example. We are never told where he came from, only that his many years of hard work and frugality in Madrid have lead him to success (Cela 2001, 49). In other cases, what leads to success are virtues implied in a specific regional image. In Galdós’s La desheredada, the success of Juan Bou is attributed by the narrative voice to the proverbial diligence of the Catalans (Pérez Galdós 1976, 192). But the reversal of a regional image can also explain the success of a character in Madrid, such as Arias Ortiz, a student of engineering who is presented as an exception to the Andalucian stereotype of gaiety and lightheartedness in Galdós’s El doctor Centeno (Doctor Centeno, 1883; Pérez Galdós 1961b, 1369). Contrarily, in the same novel, the Catalan Poleró is a happy-go-lucky character, an engineering student who, instead of studying, frequents parties and cafes, contradicting the Catalan regional image of seriousness to such a point that he is said to be completely Castilian in his manners and accent (Pérez Galdós 1961b, 1370). The relation between the good or bad fortune of the regional characters in Madrid and whether or not they conform to the virtues and defects associated to the regional image is not always as straightforward as in the cases mentioned above. Sometimes, the characters’ success, or lack thereof, in Madrid is connected to their native land in complex ways. To begin with, the narrative voice often derides the notions of success and virtue. In Tiempo de silencio, the alreadymentioned Amador is ironically presented as successful in spite of his mediocrity and lack of real virtues. His “success” is attributed by the narrative voice to having inherited his brutality and arrogance from his stereotypically Asturian father: He was a canny Celt, a rugged Asturian, though born in Madrid, and his atavism enabled him to go one better than the mass of natives of the steppe. His father, now dead, had translated to him, together with his northern blood, a certain capacity for laughter, and an abundant capacity for drink which had not been impaired by the dryness of his Toledan mother’s womb. (MartínSantos 1989, 156–57)4

Similar ironic uses of regional images are very widespread in these novels, a fact that seems to reflect the authors’ uneasy awareness that these images are dangerous generalizations. At the 4.

“Celta-cauto, astur-bravío, aunque nacido en el mismísimo cogollito del mundo, sus atavismos le permitían conducir su derrotero con ventaja sobre la masa de aborígenes esteparios. El altísimo padre ya difunto le transmitió —con la sangre del norte— un cierto amor a la vida, una cierta capacidad de risa, una abundante potencia bebestible que la seca matriz de su madre toledana no había llegado a rebajar en grado apreciable” (Martín-Santos 1988, 191).

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same time, the authors are attracted to them because they are useful construction blocks for the creation of characters and actions. This tension manifests in exaggerated, even preposterous authorial interventions that mockingly attribute some personality features in a character to specific influences of his or her home region. In the above-mentioned quote about the influence of Amador’s regional father on his character, the dampness of the northern region is equated to his excessive inclination to drinking, which is not mitigated by the dryness of his mother’s native land. Also in this novel, the effects of the renowned sunny weather and pure air of Castile are ironically identified as the reason behind the resilience of Castilians, who are ironically compared to mojama, a typical method of drying tuna by the sun and dry wind (Martín-Santos 1989, 243). The atmospheric conditions of Madrid, namely the purity of the air, are also alluded to in Baroja’s La busca to explain how the inhabitants of the poorest neighborhoods in Madrid do not suffer infectious diseases in spite of their overcrowded living conditions (Baroja 1970, 86). In cases like these, it is difficult to assert whether the authors believe or not in the influence of the land on the inhabitants. One of Baroja’s characters in Aurora roja (Red dawn, 1905) delivers what seems to be a staunch defense of this belief: But the ideas are the result of the feelings and the instincts, and the instincts are but the product of the climate, of the food, and of the history of one’s racial group. Your entire racial group is in you, and your racial group is the product of the land where it has lived. We are not the children of the earth, we are the earth itself, which thinks and feels. If you change the geography of a country, the inhabitants will change right away. If it were possible to place Madrid at sea level, in fifty years Madrilenians would think completely different from now.5

Galdós’s position towards the influence of the land on some bodily and mental conditions is also unclear. In some passages of his novels, the authorial voice states a clear connection between a region and a set of features in a serious tone. In La incógnita (The unknown, 1889), Carlos María de Cisneros is introduced as a representative of the Castilian race, “as dry as the soil, as sharp as the sharpness of his race, hard but flexible as the climate of that region.”6 In the case of female characters, he extends the influence of the place of birth up to the point of conferring beauty. This is the case of Clara Chacón in La Fontana de Oro (The golden fountain, 1870), whose pale complexion Galdós considers to be typical of women from Old and New Castile (Pérez Galdós 1961d, 27). All in all, Galdós’s position towards the influence of the native land is very difficult to pin down, since in some cases, he stretches it to points that seem to be ironic. In Misericordia (Mercy, 1897) Francisca Juárez is from the city of Ronda, which is famous because of its steep cliffs over the river that divides it in two. Galdós attributes her indifference to the many and dramatic ups and downs of life in Madrid to the peculiar geography of her native city (Pérez Galdós 1995, 53). In Ángel Guerra (1894), Galdós contrasts two brothers, Agapito and Simón Babel, who were born respectively in Cádiz and Madrid according to the change of dwelling of their parents. 5.

“Y es que debajo de las ideas están los instintos, y los instintos no son más que el resultado del clima, de la alimentación, de la vida que ha llevado la raza de uno. En ti está toda tu raza, y en toda tu raza está toda la tierra donde ella ha vivido. No somos hijos de la tierra, somos la misma tierra, que siente y piensa. Se cambia el terreno de un país y se cambian los hombres en seguida. Si fuera posible poner Madrid al nivel del mar, al cabo de cincuenta años los madrileños discurrirían de otra manera” (Baroja 1969, 139; my translation).

6.

“[S]eco como la tierra, agudo con toda la agudeza de la raza, duro y flexible como el clima de aquel país” (Pérez Galdós 1961e, 690; my translation).

Regional images and the struggle for life in Madrilenian literature111 Agapito is a professional sailor, which Galdós attributes to his being born in Cádiz, while Simón is apt in land matters (Pérez Galdós 1961a, 1220). The parodical use of the geography of the native land is also present in the other authors we are studying. In Cela’s La colmena, Don Leoncio is a ridiculous poet whose insignificance is highlighted by the fact that, when he was young man, he won a poetry award in his native land, the very small island of Menorca (Cela 2001, 75). Some creative liberties that the authors take with the influence of the native geography on the characters amount to the minting of new regional images. In Galdós’s La desheredada, Don José Relimpio is presented as such a very good-natured man that he is useless in every day life. His bonhomie is the effect not only of his family name “Relimpio” (Very-clean), but also of the name of his hometown, Muchamiel (Lots-of-honey; Pérez Galdós 1976, 82). An extreme example of how a symbolic — in the sense of not being topographic or climatic — attribute of the native land influences one’s success or failure in Madrid can be seen in several of Galdós characters from La Mancha, the land of Don Quixote. They are described as prone to fantastic, chimerical enterprises, as the pretentious daydreamer Isidora Rufete in La desheredada — whose uncle was very appropriately named Santiago Quijano-Quijada (Pérez Galdós 1976, 161). Also, Alejandro Miquis in El Doctor Centeno has an unrealistic nature that Galdós attributes to the fact that he was from the La Mancha town of El Toboso, where the Cervantine creation Don Quixote imagined that his chimerical Dulcinea lived (Pérez Galdós 1961b, 1377).

Regional origins and social determinism in the modern city For historical reasons, the abundance of regional characters has been a constant in Madrilenian literature since its inception. In earlier texts, the regional characters tended to be presented as easily recognizable, ready-to-use stereotypes in very limited roles which often served as pretexts to describe picturesque outfits, ways of speaking, and gestures. Madrilenian novels of the nineteenth and twentieth century also contain regional characters but their main function in these texts is not to entertain the reader with their picturesque appearance but to be participants in the struggle for life in the big city. Although these characters are also often constructed with materials from the repository of regional imagery, the materials provide only the starting point to create complex figures whose behaviors are the result of combining regional images with other determining factors. These characters follow the regional image only partially, or even completely contradict it due to the influx of other determining factors. Often the authors play with attributing predominance to the characters’ place of birth — the geography, climate, race, etc. — or to other determinants, such as class, financial situation, personal character, gender, or health. Sometimes they resort to humor, as when they create idiosyncratic regional images that are their own elaborations of the geography of a region, its history, and literature.

Newcomers and host nations Literary images associated with immigrants in Spanish fictional narrative Dorothy Odartey-Wellington Although, at least in literary studies, portraits of national characters are no longer accepted as models of reality (Leerssen 2007a, 21), fictional representations continue to rely on stock images to communicate national, racial, or continental identity. This is particularly pertinent to contemporary Spanish fiction that deals with immigration and its related themes. Since “immigrant” suggests foreignness in relation to host-country nationals, fictional texts depend on recognizable national stereotypes to express the ensuing interactions among people of diverse racial, continental, or national backgrounds. Granted that in many fictional representations clichés of national characterizations of immigrants and host-country inhabitants are used ironically, the boundaries between ironic usage and attempts at portraying what is considered to be social reality are not always clear. This is especially the case in the novelistic reaction to the growing significance of immigration as a matter of national importance in Spain in the last two decades. The purpose of this essay is not to delve into the veracity, or lack thereof, of images associated with immigrants in contemporary Spanish narrative. Rather, in accordance with the imagological approach to the study of representations of national character (Beller & Leerssen 2007), I will be examining the uses to which stereotypes of immigrants and host-country inhabitants are put in Spanish fiction, in order to expose the values underlying the response to cultural diversity in twenty-first-century Spain. The study will begin with an overview of the development of immigrants as characters in contemporary Spanish fiction. I will then examine two recurrent stereotypes whose origins may be found in the Spanish press: the predominant image of immigrants as sub-Saharan and North African, and the notion of immigrants as an invasive mass of people threatening to overrun the host country. This will be followed by an analysis of the role of the narrative voice of the so-called “1.5 generation” or second-generation immigrants in the construction or subversion of preconceived images of immigrants and host-country nationals. Although the above-mentioned discussions will also elucidate the interrelationship between the discourse of immigrant representation and the images associated with the host country, the final section will specifically focus on the latter images by addressing their re-creation through a conscious erasure of the differentiating characteristics between immigrants and host-nation inhabitants. In the final analysis, the recurrent presence, in fiction, of stereotypes of nationalities and races, either in the form of echoes of popular beliefs or through the metafictional usage of hackneyed tropes, points to an acute awareness of the presence of national differences. The discursive examination of the fictional renditions of these differences however, reveals a diminution, rather than a reinforcement, of the certainties surrounding notions of national identity and the criteria of belonging and exclusion. The novelistic use of national and/or racial stereotypes in contemporary Spanish fiction betrays the constructivist nature of the so-called identity of foreign immigrants as well as that of the host country. Furthermore, Spain comes across, not as the “already made” nation threatened by external change in the form of newcomers, but rather as an entity under construction. The presence of immigrants in fiction and in reality constitutes a part of that ongoing construction process. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.11oda © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Literary images associated with immigrants in Spanish fictional narrative113 The presence of foreign immigrants as characters in Spanish fiction is a relatively new phenomenon. Whereas the representation of Spanish nationals as emigrants in other countries is not new to Spanish fiction, that of other nationals living or working in this part of the Iberian Peninsula has gained importance only in the last two decades. Critics who have dealt with the theme of immigration in Spanish fiction attribute this literary phenomenon to current sociopolitical and demographic realities. It is commonly noted that until the last couple of decades of the twentieth century, Spain was a country of almost zero immigration. Migration within and out of Spain, however, is not a novelty. Following the Civil War (1936–39), and especially in the 1950s and 1960s, Spain became an exporter of migrant labor to the land of its more affluent and industrialized neighbors (Germany, Switzerland, and France) and, across the Atlantic, to its former colonies. The literary manifestations of this phenomenon, especially as it pertains to Spanish emigrants in Europe are well documented by Ruiz Sánchez (2004) and Rodríguez Richart (1999). Since the early 1990s, the focus on immigrants from elsewhere as characters in Spanish fiction and film has been on the rise. Critics point to Montxo Armendáriz’s 1990 film, Las cartas de Alou (Letters from Alou), as pioneering the representation of immigrants in Spanish creative imagery. Clearly, they overlook “El sueño” (The dream), a short story that went unnoticed when it was self-published in a slim anthology in 1977 by a writer of Equatorial Guinean origin, Donato Ndongo-Bidyogo. Like Alou, the eponymous character in Armendáriz’s film, the unnamed narrator in “El sueño” is a young West African man who crosses the ocean in a small boat, in search of a better life in Europe (Ndongo-Bidyogo 1997, 204–05). There is no doubt that the media attention that has been given to the theme of immigration, and the growing significance of the latter as a socio-political issue, have contributed to bringing attention to bear on Las cartas de Alou and on subsequent treatments of the theme in other cultural media as well. Indeed, the significance of immigration in contemporary Spanish fiction and the images associated with that theme are evident, as Kunz has also observed (2002, 110–11), in the short story that was selected to represent the fiction of the 2000s in the anthology Nuevos episodios nacionales. 25 historias de la democracia 1975–2000 (New national episodes. 25 stories of democracy 1975–2000; L. G. Martín et al. 2000). “Un gran jardín” (A great garden; Giménez Bartlett 2000, 437–53) revolves around the interaction between a middle-aged North African man, Abdel-latif Marrahui, the social worker, Cati, who is responsible for helping him find a job in Spain, and her boss, whom Abdel-latif marries in the end. As though to make absolutely certain that the reader does not overlook the correlation between the social context and the representative theme, the page opposite the title page carries the photograph of a number of North African men in a boat. The caption beneath the photograph reads “Pateras para alcanzar la tierra de promisión” (Giménez Bartlett 2000, 436; Rafts for reaching the Promised Land). This is followed by a list of noteworthy events of 2000 which include, in bold, “Brote racista en El Ejido (Almería) tras la muerte de una joven por un marroqui” (Giménez Bartlett 2000, 436; The outbreak of racist violence in El Ejido (Almería) following the murder of a young girl by a Moroccan man). The emerging picture of immigration, judging from this short story and its ancillary texts and images, is one of illegal immigration from Africa, racial conflict, and the general idea of immigration as a problem. Indeed, it is a good representation of the aspects of immigration that tend to be favored in contemporary literary treatments of the theme. Imagery associated with illegal immigration from Africa to Spain is often used as the salient metaphor for immigration in fiction. This fact is echoed in the title of a 2007 newspaper article:

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“El cayuco llega a la narrativa” (Corroto 2007). “The canoe makes it into literature,” says Paula Corroto who adopts the metonym of the canoe, one of the modes of transportation by which some immigrants make it to Spanish shores, to report on the increasing presence of immigrant characters and related themes in novels by such writers as Belén Gopegui, José Ovejero, and Juan Bonilla. Furthermore, approximately fifty percent of the twenty-one works of literature on the theme of immigration that were published between 1989 and 2000, listed by Irene Andrés-Suárez (2003; see also Andrés-Suárez 2002), deal with illegal migration into Spain through the Strait of Gibraltar. Of the immigrants defined by racial group or geographical region, only a few of those in the listed works are Eastern European or Latin American. In the first decade of the twentyfirst century, the number of novels featuring immigrants has continued to rise, and many more works of fiction can be added to Andrés-Suárez’s list. Although the racial groups represented in these works include Latin Americans and Eastern Europeans, they show the same preference for so-called sin papeles or clandestinos (illegals), especially of African or North African origin. It is also noteworthy that Asians as a racial group do not seem to be represented as significant characters beyond the cliché of the shop owner or restaurateur in the case of Chinese immigrants. There is no doubt that mass media representations have a role to play in the way in which immigrants are portrayed in fiction. In this regard however, print media, more so than television, may be seen as providing the models for what then appears in novelistic fiction. In research done on television series’ airing on three channels in Spain, immigrants were typically portrayed as being Latin American (Ruiz Collantes et al. 2006). On the other hand, the analysis of the framing of news reports on immigration shows that immigrants appearing in the Spanish press are typically illegal African immigrants (Igartúa et al. 2004). News framing, quite like picture framing, allows one to identify the particular perspective on the treatment of an event through what is emphasized, what is selected for reporting, and what is left out (Igartúa et al. 2004, 2). The study carried out by Igartúa et al. shows that immigration stories in the press are often located on the coastal regions of Spain — Andalusia, the Canary Islands, and the Strait of Gibraltar — the events take place at night or at dawn, and reference is made to maritime modes of transportation such as rafts, motorboats, and other small vessels; the reports routinely mention the involvement of state security agents, such as the National Civil Guard and the Police, in the action. The immigrants in the reports are often referred to according to their status (illegal, undocumented, without papers etc.); reference is made to their numbers and their place of origin — sub-Saharan Africa. They are often described as being rescued, as suffering and as being exhausted. The actions ascribed to them, have to do with their arrival on rafts on the shores of Spain and their illegal entry into the country. They are targets of the actions of others, which include interception as they arrive on rafts, repatriation, rescue, and medical aid. The picture that one gets of what an “immigrant” is in contemporary Spain is therefore that of the person who enters Spain illegally, through its points of closest proximity to the African continent, with many more just like him or her from Africa. This person is also portrayed as one who is vulnerable, does not belong in Spain, and is a beneficiary of humanitarian kindness from the host country. Portraits of such “new nomads of capitalism” abound in contemporary Spanish fiction, in which they provide the recurrent motifs of “marginalization and failure” (Kunz 2002, 132). They also serve as a metaphor for the less privileged element in the North/South economic binary. As Maja Zovko rightly sums up in her overview of the image of immigrants in Spanish literature: “[t]he immigrant who is featured [in Spanish literature] is mostly a poor person without much

Literary images associated with immigrants in Spanish fictional narrative115 education who is from the lowest strata of society. He is a victim in society and he is marginalized both in his country of origin and in the host country” (2009, 171). This image is, however, subtly subverted through the portrayal of the protagonist of Ndongo-Bidyogo’s El Metro (The subway, 2007). In this case Obama, the protagonist, is educated, although he had led a difficult life in his native Cameroon from where he emigrated first to other African cities and finally to Spain, driven by love and a desire for a better life. The economic divide between Africa and Europe is the theme of his reflections after he succeeds in crossing over to “Eden” (Ndongo-Bidyogo 2007, 384). With the images of the “North” (comfort, safety, technological advancement) around him, and while evoking some of the eternal unflattering images associated with Africa (Ndongo-Bidyogo 2007, 386), he delves into the debates around the local and international causes of the “underdevelopment” of Africa. Characteristically, immigration turns out not to be a solution to his flight from poverty as he falls victim to the xenophobic violence of skinheads and is stabbed to death in the subway. He ends up being another victim in his attempt to scale the insurmountable economic divide erected, represented, and reinforced through detrimental practices in which both Africa and Europe are implicated. Obama’s character is more nuanced than the cliché broken-Spanishspeaking African or North African, such as the Equatorial Guinean in Al calor del día (In the heat of the day; Naveros 2001, 109) and the Moroccan woman, Aisha, in Háblame, musa, de aquel varón (Speak to me, my muse, of that man; Chacón 2007). Furthermore, since the novel focuses entirely on him one gets an informed sense of the reasons, often of global dimensions, behind his ending up in Spain. It is not merely coincidental that this more complex African immigrant is given to Spanish fiction by an author who is himself from elsewhere. As a writer from Equatorial Guinea, he represents the type of African whose image is still relatively invisible in contemporary Spanish fiction. Few images in fictions that portray African immigrants subvert the North/South economic divide as boldly as Giménez Bartlett’s previously mentioned short story, “Un gran jardín.” Cati, the social worker in the story, is forced to abandon her patronizing and paternalistic attitude towards African immigrants when she is confronted with a North African man who does not fit the stereotype. The 59-year-old Abdel-latif Marrahui leaves her rather perplexed because he “spoke like a book” (Giménez Bartlett 2000, 443) and, contrary to her expectations, he is looking for a job that has to do with languages (Giménez Bartlett 2000, 441), perhaps as an interpreter or someone in charge of public relations at a hotel (Giménez Bartlett 2000, 442). On the other hand, he had never been able to hold down previous manual employment in gardening and bricklaying. Three or four months later when he reappears on Cati’s computer, he has left his last job as a school custodian (Giménez Bartlett 2000, 449). To her amazement, her supervisor, happily reveals to her that they are going to get married (Giménez Bartlett 2000, 450). It is this turn of events that leads Cati to metaphorically erase the differentiating barrier between her and the immigrants that she is supposed to help. She begins to see them as she does herself and other Spanish people: “I will never feel sorry for them, […], because those immigrants are human and as human beings […] they will fight to find their space […] as [I] would also.”1 The image of the North/South boundary is effectively erased through this story of mutual support expressed by means of the marriage between the North African immigrant and the Spanish woman. 1.

“[N]unca sentirá lástima por ellos […], porque aquellos inmigrantes eran humanos, y como hombres […] lucharían por encontrar su espacio […] como [yo] lo haría también, igual” (Giménez Bartlett 2000, 452–53).

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The immigrant who tries to get into Spain from the African continent reinforces the image of the other as being not only indigent but also racially and, therefore, culturally different. This is exemplified in the ironic short story “Rasgos occidentales” (Western features) by Isaac Rosa (2006). A white baby’s body is found among the cadavers of Africans who had died on a boat en route, supposedly, to Spain. Unable to determine the nationality of the baby, officials agree to describe it as a baby with “rasgos occidentales” (Rosa 2006, 256; Western features). They arrive at this label after discarding options such as “un niño blanco” (Rosa 2006, 255; white baby), “un niño europeo” (Rosa 2006, 256; a European child), and “un bebé de rasgos europeos” (Rosa 2006, 256; a baby with European features). The first moniker was dismissed for sounding strange and racist. The person who rejected it did not want to be politically incorrect; media reports did not usually refer to the bodies of would-be immigrants in terms of their race but rather according to their continent of origin. He protests: “Yes, but we never say that the bodies are black […] We often say Africans, of African origin, sub-Saharan Africans, things like that.”2 Yet while he lists the supposedly less offensive geographical adjectives, one is painfully aware of their association with the subaltern status of the people to whom they are applied vis-á-vis “white” or “European.” In any case, European was not an option either for describing the anonymous baby because, ostensibly, they did not know the baby’s nationality and it could well be North American or even African, as there were white people in South Africa too (Rosa 2006, 256). In addition to political correctness, officials and reporters are hindered from describing the baby as “white” or “European” by the fact that those two terms did not fit the stereotype of an immigrant. This particular problem posed by the unusual discovery comes to the fore in the burial of the bodies. Whereas no one questioned the sign, “Inmigrante sin identificar” (Rosa 2006, 258; unidentified immigrant) that was placed on the grave of the Africans, the baby was buried in a separate grave and “no one dared to put the label ‘immigrant’ on it.”3 No one had proven the nationality and the objectives of the so-called African immigrants either; however, they fit the immigrant image in the popular imagination in a way that the baby with “Western features” did not. Fiction also reflects the impression given by the media that Spain is being overrun by immigrants. It is true that immigration into Spain has risen significantly in the last few decades. Indeed, Alberto Nadal (2007) has observed that the main difference between Spain and other industrialized countries is that Spain has experienced, in a relatively short time, a significant increase in its immigrant population. While in 2000 immigrants constituted only 2.3 percent of the general population, by 2005 they made up 8.5 percent of the residents of Spain (Nadal 2007, 38). The media picks up on the intensity of the phenomenon and usually describes it in hyperbolic terms with words and images which, when added to the frequency with which the topic appears, suggests that Spain is being overwhelmed by immigrants. When a Spanish woman in Una tarde con campanas (An afternoon with bells; Méndez Guédez 2004) asks a Latin American woman if there are any more people left in her country, as supposedly the whole population had emptied itself into Spain (Méndez Guédez 2004, 72), she echoes the often repeated idea of the “invasion” of Spain by immigrants. Several narratives reproduce variations of images which suggest the arrival of hordes of foreigners at Spanish airports or on Spanish shores. In the previously mentioned 2.

“Ya, pero como nunca decimos que los cadáveres son negros […] Solemos decir africanos, de origen africano, subsahariano, esas cosas” (Rosa 2006, 255)

3.

[N]adie se atrevió a colocarle la etiqueta de ‘inmigrante’” (Rosa 2006, 258).

Literary images associated with immigrants in Spanish fictional narrative117 story “Rasgos occidentales,” the boat in which the bodies were found is only one of many that had arrived that summer and fall (Rosa 2006, 259). The image of immigrants arriving in large groups is not limited to the shores. At the airport, while Adela Guzmán Santana, the protagonist of Madre mía que estás en los infiernos (My mother who is in hell; Jiménez 2007), waits to be interviewed by immigration officers, she is surrounded by others like her, albeit mostly Venezuelan women. In addition to the image of the arrival of numerous immigrants by sea or by air, immigration is portrayed as a demographic problem in images that suggest overcrowding in the living conditions of immigrants. In Una tarde con campanas, the narrator’s immigrant family members live, almost literally, on top of one another in a two-bedroom apartment that they share with four other women. The whole family, except the older daughter, shares a bedroom. As if this is not enough, the father rents out mattresses on the balcony to other hapless immigrant workers who take turns sleeping there. The fictional focus on the unbearable number of immigrants in Spain creates a dramatic effect which differentiates migration, as a movement of a significant body of people, from the movement of individuals in the case of exile. In addition, the stereotype serves to generalize the negative phenomena that are supposedly driving people out of their countries of origin to less hostile environments. As such, unstable governments, natural disasters, economic hardships, and the like (Nunca pasa nada — Nothing ever happens, Ovejero 2007; Una tarde con campanas; Madre mía que estás en los infiernos), as well as the fall of communism and its socioeconomic repercussions in the former Eastern Bloc (Los novios búlgaros — The Bulgarian couple, Mendicutti 2003) have led to more than a few people abandoning their country of birth to seek greener pastures elsewhere. For example, in Nunca pasa nada, Olivia’s answers to her employer’s question about her country of origin cast her in the stereotype of Ecuadorians searching for economic prosperity abroad: her father had abandoned the family, forcing her mother to raise her and her four siblings. Now that her mother is ill, she has come to Spain to work in order to be able to support her family (Ovejero 2007, 27–28). As a developing-country immigrant she is but one more among many others who, like her, are trying to get out of their home country for similar reasons. As she says to her employer, who expresses interest in going to Ecuador (as a tourist, of course), “well, as you see, all of us Ecuadorians come this way.”4 The unspoken counterpoint to the stereotype of hordes of immigrants “invading” Spain is the image of Spain as the site of stability, good governance, economic success, personal security, and so on, that is attracting the immigrants. The juxtaposition of masses of indigent and vulnerable people with a safe and stable Spain perpetuates the idea of Spain as a European haven that draws outsiders. This places Spain in the category once occupied by other European countries, such as France and Germany, in Spanish fictions. In those instances, in the second half of the twentieth century, similar images of crowds of immigrants — in this case from Spain — served to cast Spanish immigrants as the “others” in relation to certain European ways of being in which order, stability, and economic security, which the Spanish did not possess in the popular imagination at the time, were considered to be the standard. The fictional images of foreigners and Spain reviewed thus far have mainly emanated from the voice of first-generation immigrants or from the perspective of Spanish nationals. The paucity of second-generation immigrant narratives in Spanish fiction has been attributed to the relative 4.

“Pues, ya ve, ves, que los ecuatorianos todos nos venimos para acá” (Ovejero 2007, 26).

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newness of immigration as a social phenomenon (Kunz 2002, 134). Although this may be the case, narrative attempts at creating that second or 1.5 generation voice and its experiences must be noted in novels such as Algún día, cuando pueda llevarte a Varsovia (One day when I can take you to Warsaw; Silva 1997), Una tarde con campanas (An afternoon with bells; Méndez Guédez 2004), and L’últim patriarca (The last patriarch; El Hachmi 2008). In each of these novels, the construction or subversion of stereotypes of immigrants and host-country people is achieved through the experience of a young member of an immigrant family or through the eyes of a young Spanish person who contributes to unraveling the prescribed national images. In these instances the juxtaposed images of foreigners and nationals are less Manichean and monolithic than is often the case in novels that privilege the voice of the adult immigrant or host-country inhabitant. L’últim patriarca purports to be the story of a Moroccan father who has emigrated to Vic and who “has to grapple with the frustration of seeing his destiny unfulfilled,” as well as that of his daughter (the narrator), who “entirely unintentionally, changed the history of the Driouch forever” (El Hachmi 2010, vii).5 It ends up, however, being the story of the narrator, who, as a child, has to navigate the Moroccan and Spanish cultures and how the conflicts between the two, and the contradictions within them, affect her personal development. National stereotypes abound here. Of all things, the narrator’s father falls fully within the stereotype of the chauvinistic Moroccan male who has a violent temper and who restricts the movements of his wife and daughter. The daughter’s view of her father and of other men, including the Moroccan man she subsequently marries, is unmercifully irreverent. The objective here, however, is not to perpetuate the stereotype of the Moroccan male and the submissive Moroccan woman like her mother. In the hands and eyes of the narrator, her tyrannical father’s behavior is put under scrutiny to reveal that he is the product of his upbringing rather than a general representative of a culture. The fact that he was spoiled as a child and indulged by the women in his family contributed to his immaturity as an adult. This idiosyncratic immaturity is reflected, for example, in his inability to take responsibility for being fired from his job as a bricklayer. He had sodomized his boss’s wife, with whom he was having an affair, against her will. In revenge, she breaks up with him and accuses him of ogling her to her husband, who demotes him from bricklayer to laborer on his pig farms. Far from accepting his own role in his misfortunes, Mimoun, the narrator’s father, sees himself as the victim of his former lover’s husband. The narrator points out how preposterous Mimoun’s way of thinking is (El Hachmi 2008, 92). His idiosyncrasies, as opposed to behavior attributable to his culture, coupled with drug and alcohol abuse, are what make him a violent individual. In drawing attention to this particularity of his behavior and its impact on his family, the narrator shows that her own portrait in the novel is not merely the stereotype of the daughter of Muslim parents. Hers could be the story of any young girl who is caught in the confusion, the frustration, and the anxiety resulting from having to deal with conflicting social demands in a dysfunctional family environment. When she resorts to overdosing on tranquilizers as her father harangues her on having to prove her virginity (El Hachmi 2008, 314), one is led to think of her as any other woman seeking an escape from patriarchal social demands coupled with domestic violence and incest. This narrator’s complex narrative voice moves the portrayal of immigrant versus host country images beyond the polarities of “us” and “them;” these perspectives are 5.

“ha d’afrontar la frustració de no veure acomplert el seu destí” / “sense haver-s’ho proposat, va canviar la història dels Driouch per sempre” (El Hachmi 2008, 7).

Literary images associated with immigrants in Spanish fictional narrative119 confused and conflated in her voice as a 1.5 generation writer, a writer who emigrated to the host country at an early age. Similarly, the narrative voice of the young son of an immigrant family in Una tarde con campanas shifts the focus in the novel from the usual tension between nationals and new arrivals. Méndez Guédez’s novel is made up of a young Latin American boy’s memories of the country he and his family had left behind and their new experiences in Madrid. Clearly his family is not completely integrated yet as just another set of residents in their neighborhood. They are marked by the stereotypical signs of immigrants: they are discriminated against, they live in a precarious economic situation, and they had had to leave their home country for reasons of social and political instability there. Yet, the sometimes ingenuous observations of the young narrator make his portrait of his family come across as the portrait of any other family that has to deal with unemployment, poverty, violence, ignorance, loneliness, and related social or personal challenges. His father is not portrayed as the innocent victim of racism or discrimination. Rather, he comes across as a man who is prone to violent anger. He is no less an unsavory character than the father of the Prados family, one of their Spanish neighbors, who is an alcoholic (Méndez Guédez 2004, 27) and who literally beats his son senseless (Méndez Guédez 2004, 27–30). There is no moral difference between the Prados’s father and the narrator’s father, who even tries to sexually abuse his own stepdaughter, Somaira. In Cuando pueda llevarte a Varsovia, the central narrative voice is that of a sixteen-year-old Spanish girl who recalls her relationship with a Polish boy and his family over a winter when she was about to turn fifteen. Although, unlike the previous novels just commented upon, the narrative voice does not belong to the progeny of immigrants, it shares the nuanced perspective of the second or 1.5 generation narrative voice. The whole novel could aptly be summarized as a narrative of deconstructions and reconstructions of national and racial stereotypes. On one level, the new arrivals do not necessarily act according to the popular stereotype of them. Their neighbors, basing their actions on mere hearsay are wary: “From now on we have to watch our phone bill. I have been told that the Polish people are experts at making illegal phone connections to call their country.”6 Others fear that the arrival of one family of immigrants is only the beginning of the arrival of hordes of them which will end up with “fourteen to fifteen Polish people crowded in an apartment, sleeping on mats and living like pigs.”7 The originator of these negative stereotypes is an ignorant man, no less a stereotype, whose son thinks that Africans and North Africans are inferior to Spanish people because “there must be a reason why Africa is below [Spain] in all the maps.”8 The stereotypes of Polish immigrants and Spanish people are soon debunked and the new arrivals are treated by almost all the others like any other neighbors. There is, however, a more subtle level of stereotype construction at play in this novel that serves, more so than the obvious stereotypes, to reveal the images of foreigners as the fictions that they are. This is done through the use of so-called positive stereotypes and a metanarrative device. For all her sensitivity and politeness, the view of the young narrator, Laura, of the 6.

“—A partir de ahora habrá que vigilar la cuenta del teléfono. Me han dicho que los polacos son expertos en hacer puentes con las líneas telefónicas para llamar a su país” (Silva 1997, 16).

7.

“[C]atorce o quince polacos metidos en el piso, durmiendo en colchonetas y viviendo como puercos” (Silva 1997, 17).

8.

“[P]or algo África está debajo de donde estamos nosotros, en todos los mapas” (Silva 1997, 12).

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new arrivals is not neutral. She gives herself away when to express her recognition of the Polish neighbors’ son she remarks: “You are one of the Polish people who live in my building, right?”9 Clearly, a more neutral question, devoid of attention to national or racial background, would have been to simply inquire if he was one of the new tenants. Furthermore, although unlike some of her neighbors she did not see “polacos” (Polish people) as thugs, she also has preconceived ideas of what Polish nationals are. As a curious reader, she has formed a romanticized image of Polish people from her studies and her readings. She recalls an anecdote that she had heard in her Social Sciences class about the brave, but futile, Polish resistance against German tanks: “It turns out that when the Polish people had already lost any possibility of resisting, a cavalry division called Pomorska […] desperately charged against the German tanks. They all died, of course, without destroying a single tank with their swords and spears.”10 Clearly, the story inspired by the nineteenth-century messianic and romantic European view of Poland (Gerrits & Leerssen 2007, 217) has garnered Laura’s respect and admiration for the Polish people: “The truth is that such an episode did not make you think that the Polish people were very normal, although there was something about them that made me like them.”11 These textual images of national identity, as well as certain moral stereotypes based on race and complexion, therefore serve as her guide in evaluating her neighbors. The blond and blue-eyed neighbors could not possibly be bad. As far as she is concerned, their Slavic features would be the envy of any Spanish girl (Silva 1997, 14). As she ponders which of the categories of good and bad her foreign neighbors might fall into, she concludes, “I was not surprised that they were kind, because I remembered the blue eyes of the mother and the daughter.”12 Laura therefore has a ready-made image, no less fictional than that of her bigoted neighbor’s impression of the Poles, into which to cast the Polish boy, Andrés. Andrés in turn takes on the role she expects of him. Therefore, when Andrés, who bravely rescues her and her friends from four bullies, tells her that he has been able to learn Spanish perfectly from a sailor from Cádiz and that he is from Warsaw, a city romanticized in her mind, it all seems to make perfect sense. Even the adventure story in which he and his father had been captains on a boat on the river Vistula fits quite well with the image of the brave and noble, but persecuted, Polish heroes. However, Andrés also relies on fiction to contribute his part to the stereotype into which Laura had cast him. She finds out, after his family had had to abandon their apartment, fleeing from the Guardia Civil, that his adventure story is very similar to a Joseph Conrad novel he had been reading at the time: La línea de sombra (The shadow line; Silva 1997, 218–20). Her friend Irene appropriately makes the following interpretation of how Andrés took on the image that Laura had created, or wanted, of him:

9.

“ —Tú eres uno de los polacos que viven en mi portal, ¿no?”( Silva 1997, 38).

10. “Resulta que, cuando los polacos ya habían perdido todas las posibilidades de resistir, una división de caballería que se llamaba Pomorska […] cargó a la desesperada contra los tanques alemanes. Murieron todos, desde luego, sin romper un solo tanque con sus espadas y lanzas” (Silva 1997, 22). 11.

“La verdad es que semejante episodio no daba para creer que los polacos fueran demasiado normales, aunque había algo que me los hacía simpáticos” (Silva 1997, 23).

12.

“No me extrañaba que fueran dulces, porque me acordaba de los ojos azules de la madre y de la hija” (Silva 1997, 27).

Literary images associated with immigrants in Spanish fictional narrative121 According to her, I was the one who created for Andrés the need to invent a marvellous story about Poland. Before he told me anything, he observed my interest and how I noticed the names of places […] According to Irene I obliged him to tell me that he was from Warsaw when in reality he was from that small city Włocławek, because Andrés saw how excited it would make me and how impressed I would be that he was from the city that stirred my imagination.13

Whether narrators are attempting to portray a reality or whether their intention is to subvert a stereotype, they work from a model of the immigrant as the foreigner who is marginalized in relation to the inhabitants of the host country. That image is well captured in the following from Al calor del día: “a long line of starving black people, threatened North Africans, persecuted South Americans, Russian, Polish, Estonian women, and whatever else there is around there, fleeing from the usual mafia organization.”14 Conversely, the inhabitants of the host country, Spain, come across as those who are set upon and besieged by undesirable outsiders who also disturb the tranquility and the economic stability of their space with their numbers, their overcrowding, their neediness, and their different traditions and practices. That European stereotype is, however, constantly destabilized through irony and cynicism which reveals the stereotype of modern Spain as no less a construct than that of the newcomers. The cynicism that undercuts the Spanish stereotype of the civilized, morally upright, honest “Western” European who is the antithesis of the Eastern European rogue is best portrayed in Los novios búlgaros and its parody of the archetype of the Spanish gentleman in the narrator. The narrator casts himself in the image of the caballero, an hidalgo or gentleman of old with noble values of generosity and altruism. In Los novios búlgaros the caballero image is all the more risible because it is out of place in the final decade of the twentieth century; the narrator attempts to make it relevant by assigning new names to the same old values. He retains the image of the generous caballero by casting his relationship with his Bulgarian lover and protégé in the language that is used to describe the supposedly altruistic relationship between the more affluent and industrialized nations and the less fortunate developing countries. He describes the financial support that he provides his lover as a form of sponsorship (Mendicutti 2003, 28). He continues the farce by establishing a scholarship in the Daniel Vergara Foundation that provides financial aid to the Eastern countries (Mendicutti 2003, 51–52). With that, he transforms his self-serving interests into acts of generosity. Morally, therefore, he places himself above his Bulgarian lover who, according to what he tells the reader, fits squarely into the stereotype of the “barbaric and opportunistic” Bulgarian (Mendicutti 2003, 14). With the cynical allusions to modern expressions of civilized generosity and altruism in the form of aid and scholarships to the disadvantaged in society, juxtaposed with the negative stereotype of Europeans from the former Eastern Bloc, Eduardo Mendicutti ridicules the image of the Western European nation that Spain had acquired since joining the ranks of industrialized

13.

“Según ella, yo fui quien le creó a Andrés la necesidad de inventarse una historia maravillosa acerca de Polonia. Antes de contarme nada, él notó mi interés y se fijó en cómo me llamaban la atención los nombres de los lugares […] Según Irene, yo le obligué a decirme que era de Varsovia, cuando en realidad venía de esa ciudad pequeña Włocławek, porque Andrés vio la ilusión que me haría y lo que me impresionaría que él viniera de la ciudad que tenía ese nombre que despertaba mi fantasía” (Silva 1997, 224).

14.

“[U]na enorme cola de negros hambrientos, de moros amenazados, de sudamericanos perseguidos, de rusas, polacas, estonias, lituanas y lo que quiera de por allí huyendo de la mafia de turno” (Naveros 2001, 280).

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Europe. Furthermore, by extension, he undermines the entire notion of generosity towards less affluent nations which, in reality, serves only to perpetuate the idea of the superiority of so-called developed countries over developing ones. Spain’s own immigrant past is also dredged up frequently as another mode of undermining the modern European image of Spain in novels that feature immigrants from elsewhere. The image of the self-assured inhabitant of the host country who may be xenophobic, reacting with righteous indignation at his/her country being overrun with immigrants, or who may look upon immigrants with patronizing benevolence is undercut by the reminder that not so long ago in history some Spanish people also occupied the same position as the objects of their reaction, rejection, generosity or indifference. The allusion to Spain’s recent history is done in a subtle manner in Naveros’s Al calor del día through the recurrent image of an old man, Antonio Cuesta, who goes about repeating the sentence “Thirty-three years in Germany… and now the pay, the pay every month.”15 It appears that this statement and its variants emanating from a mind ravaged by Alzheimer’s is an allusion to years spent working abroad in Germany as one of many economic migrants during the Franco era. Although one of the characters romanticizes the image of the now old emigré as “the perfect definition of the Spaniard of the twentieth century” whose refrain is “the swan song of the poor people who had enjoyed something of history […] for a short time,” one cannot help but observe the human tragedy implied in the old gentleman’s short-lived enjoyment of the fruits of his hard labor abroad.16 He may have been one of the “lucky” ones of his time to have had guaranteed earnings (“la paga todos los meses”) but he is none the better off for it now, having fallen victim to dementia. The short story “Al-mir-at” in García Benito’s collection, Por la vía de Tarifa (Through Tarifa; 2000, 67–87), is also illustrative of the contemporary fiction that attempts to blur the boundaries between Spain and its new arrivals. In “Al-mir-at,” translated in a footnote as “the mirror” (García Benito 2000, 69), the erasure of the difference in the human circumstances of nationals and immigrants is achieved through the narrative linking of two stories of migration that reflect each other. Each of the stories relates to one of the two main characters: Abdelkrim, a North African immigrant intercepted by the Guardia Civil at sea, and Eusebio, a Guardia Civil who recalls his own father’s emigration to Germany and his death there, alone in a hospital, during his first winter. Eusebio garners sympathy for himself and also for anyone who has had to leave his/ her home for a hostile environment as he remembers his father’s ordeal: “That harsh winter and the sadness made him die prematurely in a forgotten hospital in Köln, at 7:00am, at 10 degrees below zero, just when he was getting ready to return for Christmas.”17 In one instance, the narrator cleverly achieves an almost seamless overlapping of the two stories. Eusebio’s impatient, but concerned, demand for some herbal tea to relieve Abdelkrim’s bout of vomiting echoes a voice in his past asking for the same for him after news of his father’s death had been broken to him: 15.

“Treinta y tres años en Alemania… Y ahora la paga, la paga todos los meses” (Naveros 2001, 29–30, 144, 186).

16. “La definición perfecta del españolito del siglo veinte” (Naveros 2001, 343). / “[E]l canto de cisne de una pobre gente que ha gozado algo de la historia […] sólo unos pocos años” (Naveros 2001, 343). 17.

“Aquel duro invierno y la tristeza lo hicieron morir prematuramente en un olvidado hospital del Köln, a las siete de la mañana de un día helado, a diez bajo cero, justo cuando preparaba la vuelta para la Navidad” (García Benito 2000, 72).

Literary images associated with immigrants in Spanish fictional narrative123 — Can no one make some bloody chamomile tea for this poor fellow? He is going to ruin us all! “Eusebio’s yelling rang out in the patio of the barracks like an old echo: — Can no one make some chamomile tea for this child? He’s in distress! And aunt Anastasia brought him some hot chamomile tea that burnt his mouth but soothed his soul.18

In this story, the narrator achieves a complete erasure of the dividing line and the hegemonic relationship between the developing country immigrant and the inhabitant of an affluent host country by revealing a personal motivation behind the stereotypical benevolent act that is typically assigned to the latter. Eusebio rescues and saves the life of the hapless immigrant because of his own experience as the orphaned son of an emigrant and not because of an intrinsic national moral character. Furthermore, it is made evident in this double story that Abdelkrim’s need to escape to another country from political instability and police brutality is no less legitimate than that of Eusebio’s father who left when life was difficult in Spain. In the above-mentioned instances, the objective of the authors appears to be the portrayal of a counter image to the new twenty-first-century Spanish image described by Goytisolo as the “society of new rich people, new free people, and new Europeans” (Goytisolo & Naïr 2000, 165). They are joined in this venture by various critics including the already-mentioned Goytisolo, film directors, and historians who are currently engaged in creating a parallel narrative to that of immigrants in Spain by reversing the spotlight onto Spanish people themselves as immigrants. The reversed image has been discussed by Marco Kunz in its application to Spanish economic immigrants as characters or narrators in works such as Patricio Chamizo’s En un lugar de Alemania (Somewhere in Germany, 1967) and Víctor Canicio’s Vida de un emigrante español: el testimonio auténtico de un obrero que emigró a Alemania (The life of a Spanish emigré: the true testimony of a worker who emigrated to Germany, 1979). The conditions in which immigrants in Spain are portrayed as living, and the negative images generated by those conditions, are eerily similar to those in which poor Spanish emigrants in País Vasco, Madrid, and Catalonia, as well as in France and Germany, lived (Kunz 2003, 71–72). In the 1950s and 1960s, Spanish immigrants were shown to be piled on top of one another in insalubrious living conditions which served to align their country of origin to the “South,” the metaphor for destitution, in opposition to the so-called North of affluence and industrialization. Similarly, historian Sergio Millares Cantero’s description of people from the Canary Islands fleeing the Spanish Civil War and Francoist Spain in boats to seek refuge in African countries, which at the time were French colonies, is a replica in reverse of the reports of current migrations from Africa to Spain: Some tried it in small boats and other vessels from the Island closest to Africa, Lanzarote. However, the majority were sailors or fishermen who took advantage of the African stopovers to remain there and seek political asylum from the French colonial authorities in Morocco and Senegal. This form of escape became so frequent that the Franco authorities ended up placing armed falangistas on the fishing boats as a preventative measure. (Millares Cantero 2008, 8)

18.

“ —¿Nadie le puede hacer una puta manzanilla a este desgraciado? ¡Nos va a poner a todos perdidos! / Los gritos de Eusebio resonaban en el patio de la casa-cuartel como un eco antiguo: / —¿Nadie le puede hacer una manzanilla a este niño? ¡Se le va a salir el alma por la boca! / Y Tía Anastasia le trajo una manzanilla ardiendo, que le quemó la boca” (García Benito 2000, 77).

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A recent documentary in the same vein contributes to the ongoing exercise to keep Spain’s immigrant past in the imagination of the Spanish population: José Miguel Iranzo’s El tiempo en la maleta (Time in a suitcase, 2010) documents the migration from Villarquemado, in Teruel, where about two hundred people left behind misery and penury and emigrated to Montreal to make a healthy leaving working on farms, in factories, and in the homes of the rich. The ideological motivation of the director is clear in a Televisión Española report on the documentary: “[Teruel] has to be tolerant towards the emigrants that it receives. We have also been received in other places. Spain has been a country of immigrants” (). The motivations for migration that are described in the documentary could well be applied to the current reality of many economic migrants who flee unemployment and other hardships in their country of origin to seek prosperity elsewhere. What is left of national images after their construction, reconstruction, and subversion through clichés of immigrants and host-country nationals in contemporary Spanish fiction? Ultimately, the various imaginings of immigrants (signs of change and difference) and nationals (considered to be immutable) in fiction reveal an ongoing attempt at self definition in the face of transformation. The idea of new arrivals coming to change and disrupt a certain irrevocable image of the old nation begins to crumble in light of the fact that the image of that very nation is in flux. In material terms, the monolithic image of the host country as a haven that is threatened with destruction by the presence of the newcomers pales in the context of the gaps that are revealed in that apparently iron-clad image of a Western European country. With this in mind the cliché image of the sub-Saharan or North African immigrant as the metaphor for what Spain (now the “North”) is not also begins to shift. The cloak of indigence, ignorance, and wretchedness that the immigrant appears to wear as a second skin is shown to be merely a prop in the two senses of the word: a guise for the role of immigrant and a means of holding up the image of the North. Furthermore, the border between North and South where the “southerner” may be the economically deprived African, corrupt Eastern European, or unfortunate Latin American is on shifting ground as well. It is shown to be tied to history and time, and therefore bound to change accordingly. Spain, once South and evoking unflattering images in literature and the popular imagination, is now part of the new North. The clichés that are repeated, reworked, and reframed are but an outcome of cross-cultural interactions. These interactions are founded upon differences in constant motion.

Section II. Genres Coordinator: Maria Fernanda de Abreu

Introduction: Laws and (inter-)texts Maria Fernanda de Abreu There is no reason for a comparatist to be someone who merely classifies and simplifies. (Guillén 1993, 134)

I will start the introduction to this section quoting the words with which Claudio Guillén introduces genre studies in The challenge of comparative literature: “The matter of literary genres is one of the essentially contested concepts that has played a leading role in the history of poetics since the time of Aristotle. This problem is tenacious and interminable, neither resolved nor dissolved” (1993, 109). This is a fruitful problem and the answers will, as stated below, never be definitive. In “every age, every school, and every critical approach” (Guillén 1993, 109), replies are always marked by the historicity of the elements at play. Guillén calls these elements “aspects of the question” (109), from those integrated into a definition of genre to the very idea of literature. It is clear to me that any new proposal in the field of literary theory or historiography rests directly on the idea of literary genre and the hierarchy to which genre, institutionally, has been submitted. Simultaneously, the tension which currently dynamizes the reflection in this field of study between world literature and national and regional literatures — which is precisely what the Iberian Peninsula is, nowadays, a fruitful example of — serves the role that genre takes on in these new settings. In 1993, Guillén summed up those “aspects of the question” which have conditioned, in his opinion, our approach to literary genres from six perspectives: historical, sociological, pragmatic, structural, conceptual, and comparative. It is this latter, the comparative, which is the major frame guiding our task here, although other approaches are also used. It should be noted that in 1985, Guillén had called “logical” what now he calls “conceptual” (1985, 149), and he now introduces the idea of “perspective” of which only some aspects were considered in the earlier work (1985, 141). Guillén summarized the comparative perspective that deals with the question of “the ‘universality’ or relative limitations of each genre or system of genres in space and in time” in this way: “In how many languages, how many cultures, how many civilizations has genre X appeared?” (1993, 116). Spaces and times, varied and multiple but, also, the circulation of genres and their amalgamations will be taken into account here in Iberian meta-geographies and literary inter-historicities. As announced in the introduction to the first volume of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula, “the twelve chapters of this section, on genres and literary repertoires, deal with twelve literary forms or traditions that have been shown to be historically active from doi 10.1075/chlel.29.12dea © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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a transliterary point of view in the Iberian Peninsula, as well as from outside its limits” (Cabo Aseguinolaza, Abuín González & Domínguez 2010, xiii). As such, from a comparative perspective, what differences and affinities will we see in these literary repertoires, throughout eight centuries of exchanges, dialogues, convergences, or divergences? Which spatial and temporal samenesses and differences? Which political historical paths or “culture planning” (Even-Zohar) institutions or individuals promoted and authored those repertoires, not infrequently sustaining both their proximity and distance? In the different chapters and exemplary analyses in this section, we will see reflections, answers, and doubts concerning the above questions. Here, comparative approaches will always take into account the linguistic, historical, and literary diversity of the different regions of the Iberian Peninsula. Furthermore, genres will always be considered as cultural and critical constructions, from the point of view of both author and reader, as well as that of their (“the genres”) institutional legitimizations. In the same way, I find the proposals about genre presented by Franco Moretti (2005) useful to some extent, particularly when he follows Braudel’s idea of longue durée. According to this, genres can be considered as “morphological arrangements that last in time, but always only for some time. Janus-like creatures, with one face turned to history and the other to form,” genres being the “more ‘rational’ layer of literary history where flow and form meet” (Moretti 2005, 14). In the chapter about the Iberian pastoral romance we will see Maria do Céu Fraga stating that this genre “well illustrates the cycle of life and death, as conceived by Alastair Fowler (1997), that characterizes many literary genres.” I think there is not an exclusive contradiction between Moretti’s proposal and that of the possible permanence and durability of certain genres, as sustained by Guillén, who states that there is “permanence and change,” arguing that the genre often works as a conceptual model, a model in which times and spaces and certain individuals materialize (by “certain individuals” I mean both authors and readers). He ends up concluding that “[f]or the comparatist then, only the passage of years and centuries can manifest and display the structural riches and options of a a specific genre” (Guillén 1993, 116) as well as, of course, themes, topics, and characters. This is what, to a certain extent, we will observe later on, for example, in my chapter about the picaresque in Iberia and America, from the beginning of the nineteenth to the twentieth century. Or, concerning themes, what we observe in the chapter about the novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative, where Elena Losada reminds us that “female adultery has been one of the eternal themes of Western literature since the foundational Homeric triangle formed by Menelaus, Helen, and Paris.” Be that as may, in order to have a deeper and reasoned understanding of their development, and a map of the modes and literary genres throughout the Peninsula, much rigorous research still has to be carried out, in order to survey the reciprocal receptions, ranging from translations, critical references, and public reactions, to any other manifest form of response that could provide an account of the inter-Peninsular circulation of the multiple and diverse literary production which has taken place throughout the Iberian territory. Some of the chapters also provide an account of these elements and factors and their impact on the corresponding construction — or canonization — of genre. For this reason, it appears to me that there is some usefulness in noting in this introduction some of the contributions presented in the chapters which make up this section.

Introduction: Laws and (inter-)texts127 First, however, I would like to anticipate expectations and disappointments. The case studies presented in this section do not, obviously, cover all of the literary genres considered as major and practiced in the Iberian Peninsula. This could not be done due to the quantity and multiplicity of genres. But it also has not been carried out owing to the theoretical assumptions that have guided this historiographical task. For this latter reason, I believe it is pertinent to enter into dialogue with a passage from the review written by Hans Lauge Hansen about the first volume of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula: And what has become of the characteristics normally praised in Spanish and Portuguese literature? Where is the mysticism of Saint John of the Cross and the elegant wit (conceptism) and the eloquent rhetoric (culteranism) of the Spanish Baroque? Francisco de Quevedo and Luis de Góngora y Argote, two giants of the Spanish Baroque, are only treated en passant, as examples of literary descriptions of Southern Spain (pp. 278–79). The introduction states that the second volume will include a section on genres and literary repertoires; it is certainly to be hoped that such omissions will be compensated for there. (Hansen 2011, 249)

Like this attentive scholar, our readers will be very disappointed if they are expecting such developments in this section. I am the first to consider the essential role of such “giants.” Quevedo and Camões are certainly my beloved poets (whether by chance or not, the former was born the same year the latter died). From the perspective of studies of literary genres, they are two of the major cultivators of a genre that intersects all European literatures of the period. Even so, I have many doubts about the existence of a specific Iberian sonnet, a point that will be dealt with here in the essay by Da Silva and that, as he well shows, has been argued by brilliant scholars. Indeed, if the issue is raised as to what the study of genre from the perspective of comparative literature has undoubtedly contributed, it is showing how literary production is the result of supra-national circulation, while a historiography of genre focused only on major canonical figures (the socalled “genius”) prevents an overall vision of the “genre forest.” Even, of course, Juan de la Cruz’s mysticism or Góngora’s “Spanish baroque.” At the same time, if we want to turn our focus to the Peninsula, I believe it is pertinent to recall here what César Domínguez points out in the section on “Discourses on Iberian literary history,” when he suggests that the geographical imaginary in Iberian historiography “has served as a base for both the central position that Spanish historiography has attributed to literature in Castilian and the subordination that this same historiography has effected on ‘peripheral’ literatures, including the Portuguese” (2010, 129). Last, but not least, the insistence on the study of those “giants” has taken space away from the study of others, and the revision of the canons has often taken place according to that same imaginary. I am convinced that genres and their supra-national production and geographical metaevaluation can only be fully understood in the context of Weltliteratur, something that Goethe understood at a deep level, and that world literature has nowadays deepened. Not even the picaresque, always considered as a Spanish genre, will be treated here from that perspective. Our goal, in this case, and as in the example of other genres, will be to note manifestations of the same and its variations in other regions — Iberian indeed, but outside the centrality of Castilian and open to the transatlantic space — in a dynamic of interliterary communities or relationships and meta-geographical literary history. The idea of claiming a genre to construct an idea of an Iberian literary nationalism has never guided us. In fact, paraphrasing Jan Walsh Hokenson’s

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assertion, I am convinced that, mostly in the Iberian Peninsula, “for centuries, theories of nation and genius erased” (2003, 63) a lot of literary and discursive practices, innovations, and even genres and repertoires. If this temptation, which I personally refuse, could emerge, for example, in the approach to some genres because of a long, consolidated, and seldom questioned historiography, by contrast, historical novel or adultery novel cases clearly show the extra-Iberian character of these genres or forms, which we have appropriated and which, according to circumstances, needs, and talents, we have adapted. This is the case, for example, in the field of the historical novel, as stated by Maria de Fátima Marinho in these words: “European culture thus aimed to reconvert its origins, making them known to all, turning them into stories, in an attempt to make them more attractive and simpler. The Iberian Peninsula was no exception with regard to this phenomenon, attempting to adapt the ingredients of the genre to the respective national realities.” As for what Isabel Almeida calls the “roots and flowering of the genre” in the chapter on the “Books of chivalry,” the genesis of the genre shows well how those roots came from beyond the Pyrenees: “we are speaking of a flexible genre, which finds its roots in various important genres of the middle ages,” from the stories of the Trojan war until to the Arthurian legends. The process seems clear to this scholar: “In different ways, often in function of contingent opportunities for cultural contact, the Iberian Peninsula received these influences, and, subjecting them to transformation (whether through prosification or translation), made them not only reading material, but also a crucial stimulus for new experiences.” In their turn, analyzing a genre that seems to have a very different nature, namely the diary, which for many is a semi- or subgenre, that evolved many centuries later, Enric Bou and Heike Scharm clearly state something similar, that is, that “rich and sophisticated, the autobiographical works of Portuguese and Spanish authors are pushing further previous innovations by European literatures.” In this sense, the call made by Hokenson about the need for a revision of what he calls “the culture of the context” (2003, 58–75) seems very useful. He discusses the need for “reconceiving the literary in terms of global amalgamations, i.e., in the global context of an emerging world poetics,” which he points to as “the millennial challenge” for the future of comparative literature. This conception of the literary in terms of global “amalgamations,” of transcultural contexts and intertextuality or, I would say, of inter-genre relations, is well documented in Isabel Almeida’s essay on chivalresque literature. What Zulmira Santos calls “interferences” between different fields must also be considered. In her analysis of religious and literary canons, she notes a list of actions taken in order to justify and legitimize “the constant interference between the religious and the literary field. This interference spanned all registers of discourse: fictional prose, from chivalry books to ‘shepherd’s books’; pastoral novels, mainly in the ‘divine’ versions; sentimental novels, Byzantines and allegorical, with their diegesis often caused by travel or pilgrimage; and theatre, through the different representations of religious character that occurred throughout the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries.” Nation and genre, the other roots. José Camões and Maria João Brilhante’s chapter, “The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula,” shows well to what extent and in which ways there was the development of what they consider to be a “nationalization task” developed, where “histories of theatre have used the linguistic (omitting, for example, a repertoire of translations and adaptations) and aesthetic unit (giving priority to dramatic literature over

Introduction: Laws and (inter-)texts129 theatrical representation and excluding the more popular genres such as farce, melodrama, or revista — popular, mainly political, theatrical entertainment — and unaware of the theatrical activity developed by groups outside the professional system) since the nineteenth century, which have served, more often than not, as the construction model of emerging theatrical alternatives within communities in search of an autonomous cultural identity.” Thus, as they demonstrate, resistances to nationalist programs in Basque, Catalonia, Galicia, Portugal, and in Castile of course, among others under dictatorships, can bring specific characteristics to genre development as well as mobility beyond geographical borders and the fluctuation of political and literary factors. Guided by the need to opt for and choose between the substantial multiplicity of genres, we have decided to give space to genres that have been less covered and have been marginalized by cultural and literary historiography. Contrary to theatre, considered as a “national issue,” genres such as the diary, the essay, and children’s literature, never considered as Iberian genres, deserve our attention. Nevertheless, in the chapter on the diary, the authors underscore the fact that in Spanish literature authors have for decades been negating the existence of autobiography in their own country. “This attitude founded such unfortunate assertions” — they write — “as that by José Ortega y Gasset about the inherent ‘psychological’ impossibility of Spanish authors writing any autobiography at all. This has created a historically absurd negation of the existence of this genre, a negation that appears even more incongruous when one takes into consideration the abundance of such texts in Spanish literature.” In fact, as stated in their chapter, “until recently diary writing in the Iberian Peninsula has been relegated to a secondary role in the literary system.” But, taking account of Fernando Pessoa’s Livro do Desassossego and Josep Pla’s El quadern gris, it is possible to emphasize the fact that “this well-known type of autobiographical writing was of significant importance in at least two of the literatures written in the Peninsula,” in both Portugal and Catalonia, where “this supposedly minor genre has been practiced by major figures and, in fact, some of their better-known works outside their linguistic domains have been diaries.” As for children’s literature, Euriell Gobbé-Mévellec takes into account, among other factors, the new nature of media, the new technologies in the field of illustration, and the impact of media practices on children reading new forms of writing, and asks about the profile of this new reader: spectator-reader, actor-reader? In her opinion, the fertile interactions between texts and images produced by these new factors are “giving rise to new forms of writing” in this genre in contemporary Spanish. Finally, there is a chapter about the essay, presented by Enric Bou and Ángel Otero-Blanco. From the beginning, they take the essay to be “a literary form” and “a genre.” And they even quote Pilar San Juan’s classical approach, stating that “the essay is the most personalized, half poetic and half didactic, form of literary expression. ’It is hard to define, it is subtle and evasive; it almost always eludes the limits within which one attempts to place it […] It is this lack of limits that gives the essay its flexibility’ (San Juan 1954, 11).” Evaluating the specificity of the essay in the Iberian Peninsula, they argue that “the essay has been the literary genre of choice to express dreams and realities, utopias and disenchantments,” within a situation where “the five main national cultures coexisting in Spain and Portugal have been aware for years of their special position in a European context,” a difference that “has been voiced in many ways through art and literature.” What sort of “literary” are we speaking about? Texts that deal with “Iberian problems.” And what sort of problems? Political and those relating to identity, mostly.

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To finish this introduction, I would like to focus our attention on the reflections so wisely made by Bakhtin (1990, 98–99) more than half a century ago: the vast majority of literary genres are secondary, complex genres composed of various transformed primary genres […]. Here also is the source of all literary/conventional characters of authors, narrators, and addressees. But the most complex and ultra-composite work of a secondary genre as a whole (viewed as a whole) is a single integrated real utterance that has a real author and real addressees whom this author perceives and imagines.

Real utterances, real authors, real addressees. In real times and spaces. In a real and diverse Iberian Peninsula. The whole (viewed as a complex interaction) making a rich and sophisticated forest of literary genres.

Sefer ha-meshalim and the status of poetry in medieval Iberia Isabelle Levy An investigation of the love poetry in Jacob Ben Elʿazar’s Sefer ha-meshalim (The book of stories) provides an ideal point of entry into the multiplicities of al-Andalus/medieval Iberia. Written in Hebrew in thirteenth-century Toledo, the collection of ten prosimetric stories and debates draws from both Arabic and Romance literary models (Schirmann 1962; Schirmann 1997, 224–40; Scheindlin 1994; Decter 2007). The stories problematize the idea of poetry as their author simultaneously grapples with the often contentious statuses of poetry in the Arabic and Hebrew literary traditions and looks toward the nascent strains of lyric in the Romance vernaculars, i.e., the Occitan and Galician-Portuguese troubadour traditions. The first story of the collection is a love-themed allegory of the self; the second is a debate on the relative merits of prose and poetry; and the fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth are love stories. In these six stories, poetry plays a key role, and in all but the debate, the plots and motifs rely heavily on poetry both as a medium through which love is communicated and as an idea that informs the nature of love. The theme of love, in turn, draws attention to the use of verse and to the idea of poetry, as prose meanwhile adapts to new roles. Sefer ha-meshalim is commonly considered a Hebrew maqama, a type of fictional Arabic rhymed prose narrative with interspersed metered poems. The Arabic maqama revolved around the purely fictional encounters of a storyteller with a roguish, anti-heroic protagonist (Drory 2000a, 190). In a typical maqama, the protagonist is often in disguise until the story’s end, when the narrator who relates his sundry “adventures and eloquent speeches” reveals his identity (Makāma 2011). Although the Arabic maqama flourished in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, Jewish writers of that period in the East and in al-Andalus did not quickly adopt the genre as they had Arabic poetic styles; rather Jews living in Christian Iberia were the ones to develop a Hebrew version of the maqama, some two centuries after its invention in Arabic (Hamilton 2007, 50). Jewish poets in al-Andalus began to adapt the meters, forms, and tropes of Arabic poetry to secular Hebrew poetry in the tenth century. While at first some argued that the Hebrew language was demeaned through subjection to Arabic quantitative meter and application to secular subjects, the tendency to Arabize soon thrived and became the standard mode of poetic composition (Weiss et al. 2007, 265). These poets addressed the same set of topics — wine, love, etc. — as their Muslim counterparts, and many also composed liturgical poetry using the same techniques. Beginning in the thirteenth century, Jewish poets in Christian Iberia began to experiment with different subject matters and forms, perhaps due to their exposure to Romance language poetic practices (Weiss et al. 2007, 265). While poets and poetry were largely revered in the Hebrew golden age of poetry (ca. 950-ca. 1150), some scholars, such as Moses Ibn Ezra (d. after 1135) and Maimonides (d. 1204), began to question the status of secular poetry (Brann 1991; Rosen 2003, 74–81; Tobi 2010, 389–482). In the generation following Ben Elʿazar, Ibn Falaqera (d. after 1290) unexpectedly used verse to denounce poetry in his prosimetric Sefer ha-mevaqesh (The book of the seeker). His critique echoed the compositional trends of the period: in the Hebrew writing of Christian Iberia, rhymed prose — albeit rhymed prose interlaced with metered poems — became increasingly popular as poetry lost favor (Decter 2007, 100). This phenomenon echoes an earlier doi 10.1075/chlel.29.13lev © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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such progression in the Classical Arabic tradition of literary criticism, even if it did not ring true in terms of actual compositional output and practices: ninth- and tenth-century scholars, such as al-Jāḥiẓ (d. 868–69) and al-Mubarrad (d. 898), preferred poetry, while late-tenth- and eleventhcentury critics, such as al-Ṣābī (d. 1056) and al-Marzūqī (d. 1030), shifted toward the favoring of prose for both theological and formal compositional reasons. To fully appreciate Ben Elʿazar’s treatment of poetry, some background on the history of “courtly love” is in order. Although the term courtly love was poised to define a literary category, specifically to discuss the type of love that Chrétien de Troyes described in the late twelfth century, it became and remains a topic of heated discussion and debate, particularly with regard to its origin. Some point out the possibility of Arabic influence in the origin of courtly love, and others look to Ovid; some note the feudal society of Languedoc as inspiration, and others find sources in cults or in Christian teachings (Boase 1977). Still others object altogether to the imposition of modern terminology on a medieval practice (Denomy 1953, 46; Donaldson 1965), even as one scholar asserts that such a notion was certainly in play in a variety of medieval settings, if not in the form of that specific phrase (Ferrante 1980). The Occitan tradition was already well established when Ben Elʿazar composed Sefer hameshalim, and Occitan troubadours frequented the court of Alfonso VIII of Castile (1158–1214) (Lang 1895, 105). Ben Elʿazar could have encountered the variety of love that these troubadours professed as they passed through Toledo, and he also could have been exposed to the lyrics of the Galician-Portuguese troubadours, who likewise attended the court of Alfonso VIII (Lang 1895, 105). Occitan lyrics seem to have influenced Galician-Portuguese cantigas d’amor and cantigas d’amigo, even if the two traditions conceive of love in slightly different manners (Shapiro 1978; Dronke 1968; Frenk 1977). Key to the present context is that love and the spiritualization of love shaped the poet-lover in these Romance courtly constructions. Indeed, the Romance vision of courtly love has been termed a game played by poets (Singleton 1969, 47). Some medieval Arabic poems also put forth a spiritualized notion of love, and occasionally scholars of medieval Arabic literature likewise invoke the terms “spiritual love” and “courtly love” (Vadet 1968; Pérès 1953). Arabic love poetry and proper love practices seem not to have served as much for the spiritual enrichment of the poet-lover as for the practical purpose of rounding out a thorough adab curriculum that any individual of means would have pursued. Further, some scholars find fault with the association of ʿudhrī ghazal (the term for Arabic love poetry) and courtliness, in which ʿudhrī love is defined as “idealized and chaste” (Giffen 1971, 14). They tend to regard this characterization, such as that depicted in Kitāb al-muwashshā (The book of ornamentation), al-Washshaʿ’s tenth-century treatise on love, as a projection in the ʿAbbasid period (750–1258) “back into an idealized Bedouin past” (Jacobi 2011). Hebrew poetry did not warmly embrace the spiritual love found in Arabic works such as the Muwashshā and Ibn Dāwūd’s late-ninth-/early-tenth-century Kitāb al-zahra (The book of the flower). Whether filtered through ʿAbbasid sensibilities or not, ʿudhrī love therefore seems to be an implausible explanation for the kind of love that Ben Elʿazar depicts (Schirmann 1961, 322–23; Schirmann 1962, 295). Nor does it seem likely, due to the historical gap, that Ben Elʿazar turned to Ibn Ḥ azm’s Tawq al-ḥamāma (The ring of the dove, 1022), the principal Arabic text on the theory of love in al-Andalus. Like its Romance analogue, Arabic love places emphasis on the process of courtship, but it lacks the compulsion of the Romance poet-lover to persevere endlessly to prove his devotion — perseverance that Ben Elʿazar exhibits in the ninth story of the collection and that Scheindlin attributes to Romance courtly love (1994, 17). For example, in that story when

Sefer ha-meshalim and the status of poetry in medieval Iberia133 Sahar marries princess Kima and inherits the throne of Kima’s father, he continues to renew “vedivre ḥishqam meḥadesh / ki riv ahavim ha-yedidot loṭesh” (Schirmann 1939, 265; ll. 457–58; the words of their love, for quarreling of lovers sharpens love). In addition, while the love that Ibn Ḥ azm describes in the prose of the Ṭ awq is relatively chaste — unlike the frequently erotic verses that pepper his treatise — it is not explicitly ennobling, as it is in the Romance tradition. Both Romance and Arabic traditions imply that if the aspiring lover learns how to be a better poetlover, he will in turn be a better-rounded individual. But while this general betterment seems to be the end goal of the Arabic tradition, it is more of a secondary consequence for the lover in the Romance tradition, who treats love as something “more-than-human” and has loftier goals for his honed skills as poet-lover (Dronke 1968, 7). Ben Elʿazar embraced this Romance idea of love as ennobling (Schirmann 1997, 237–38; Decter 2007, 140). Indeed, Sahar manages, in the ninth story of the collection, to raise himself from unknown boy to royalty through the careful study of love poetry and the rules of love. Before Ben Elʿazar reaches this dramatic espousal of Romance courtly love in the ninth maqama, he first equivocates on the status of poetry. In the first maqama, Ben Elʿazar chooses poetry as the mode in which to relate the most crucial portion of the story, a Neoplatonic explication of the eternal nature of the soul. The second story, however, incriminates poetry, in this case presented as a personified figure. At the conclusion of the story — a debate between the Man of Poetry and the Man of Prose — judges deem Poetry the victor, while proponents of Prose complain that the judgment was false, fixed by the judges. The Man of Poetry relishes his victory, admitting to the reader that he has won through deceit and theft, and concludes with a poem in which he praises wisdom as that which validates poetry. Verse is traditionally thought to have expressed lies, but this characterization lends the personified Poetry an unexpected maliciousness. It seems too simplistic to say, as one scholar does, that Ben Elʿazar’s depiction of poetry in the second maqama signifies his repudiation of all poetry (Tobi 2010, 469 & 479). The maqama was, after all, intended as a work of fiction (Drory 2000a, 197). The domineering impulse of the personified Man of Poetry in the second maqama might explain the conspicuous role of poetry at other points in the text, particularly in the love stories. The victory of the Man of Poetry, after all, is not so different from the victory of the Hebrew and Romance poet-lover: both use poetry or the idea of poetry as a means of conquest. While Ben Elʿazar’s figures of poet-lover in the love stories of his collection do not reflect the level of deceptiveness of the Man of Poetry, they do seem aware that they are engaging in a game that involves a certain degree of cunning. The most overt use of poetry as a medium of conquest appears in the sixth story, a story about lovers Maśkil and Penina who defeat Cushan, the black giant, in battle. Worried about the fate of beauty, the King of Beauty puts out a search for a leader and selects Maśkil (whose name literally means educated or intelligent), who decides, once in power, to search for lovers in Arab lands. There he meets beautiful Penina (which means coral or pearl) and the two live blissfully until Cushan comes and demands that Maśkil relinquish Penina. Maśkil vows to fight Cushan, and Penina supports his efforts until he succeeds, whereupon the lovers marry and return to their joyous existence. Intimations of poets and poetry frame the story: the narrator includes poets in the list of advisers who tell Maśkil about the lovers in the Arab lands, and he also alludes to the love poems of the female gazelles in both the beginning and end of the story. Aside from her beauty, Penina’s mastery of poetry attracts Maśkil to her: “va-yehi khe-shamʿo maʿaneha ve-ṭuve shireha urnaneha va-tosef ahavatah va-tigdal yedidotah” (Schirmann 1939, 227; ll. 39–40) — “Hearing her words / and

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the excellence of her song and music, / his love for her grew and his affection increased” (Rosen 2006, 160). Cushan’s fumbling of words, in contrast, displays his ignorance and brutishness: he responds to Maśkil’s poem about his wickedness by speaking “ve-yedaber be-holelut” (Schirmann 1939, 229; l. 89) — “foolishly until he exhausted all his words” (Rosen 2006, 162). Indeed, the antagonists’ relative skill in composing verse seems to correlate directly to their moral standing. Maśkil’s adeptness with verse plays an equally important role in his defeat of Cushan as does his physical strength. During the course of the battle, the two exchange a series of poems, of which Maśkil recites four and Cushan two. Although quantity can be a misleading measure, it is perhaps not a coincidence that Maśkil’s verses outnumber those of Cushan. Maśkil, in fact, validates his own long-windedness: he berates Cushan for abusing words in his ignorance, implying that his own intelligence gives grounds for his lengthier recitations. Maśkil wins the battle of wits before the physical war even commences, and love leads him to his victory. In his second poem directed at Cushan, Maśkil uses tropes typical of Hebrew love poetry and of the object of his own affections to assert his dominance: Fools’ folly will destroy them; inanity will kill the inane. Know you not that a bold gazelle may prevail by melting a lion’s soul with his eyes? You are but a Cushite — and Cushites are nothing to me! Their beholders seek peace — while they wish ever to fight. Penina and her pearly face and teeth resemble a flock of ewes just shorn; lions devour their prey with might — she devours hearts with her eyes. (Rosen 2006, 163)1

Rather than claiming himself to be a celebrated warrior, Maśkil uses his status as a poet-lover — frequently termed a gazelle in the context of medieval Hebrew love poetry — to assert his power over his opponent. But while he will overcome Cushan, he will remain beholden to Penina, as the rules of courtly love dictate. In citing his status as lover, Maśkil acknowledges his indebtedness to Penina as he sets out to defeat the giant. The figure of the beloved and the language of love poetry thus fuel his success, as he exclaims in his final verses before slaying Cushan: He is not worth the dust trodden by the beloved damsel, the perfect gazelle, who stole her beauty from the stars and stripped off the sun’s light. (Rosen 2006, 166)2

1.

“ve-sikhlut ha-kesilim hi temitem / ve-liftaim teabedna meshuvot // hatedaʿ ki tsevi ḥayil ve-gibor / venefesh haʾari ʿenav medivot // ve-at kushi levadekha va-halo li / vene kushim beʿenai keḥaravot // ve-roehem yevaqshu et shelomam / ve-hema yaḥpetsun kol ʿet qeravot // u-vifnina u-faneha feninim / ve-shineha ke-ʿeder ha-qetsuvot // arayot yiṭrefu ṭarpam bekhoḥam / ve-hi tiṭrof be-ʿeneha levavot” (Schirmann 1939, 229; ll. 102–07).

2.

“ha-lo khol zot ʿafar ʿofra / gevira raʿya tama // asher ʿashqa yefi khima / ve-hitsila me-or ḥama” (Schirmann 1939, 231, ll. 162–63).

Sefer ha-meshalim and the status of poetry in medieval Iberia135 Poetry is not deceptive in this context, as the Man of Poetry is characterized in the second story. Maśkil is frank with Cushan in owing his success to poetry and to love. Further, Maśkil and Penina are depicted as good lovers who operate by poetry and courtliness, in sharp contrast to Cushan, a bad lover motivated by lust (Rosen 2006, 168). There is no sign of the distinction made in the second story, in which the Man of Prose is deemed good and honest and the Man of Poetry evil and corrupt. Here, both the good and bad lovers employ both prose and verse, even if the hero disparages the villain’s facility with language. In sharp contrast to the Man of Poetry in the second story, the hero here uses love and courtly love poetry to achieve his victory. As in the sixth story, the combatants in the seventh use poetry as a complement to their physical battling, but in this maqama, there is no evil character and no loser; both Yefefiya and Yemima win the affections of Yashefe, and thus their deceitfulness and deceptive poetry are short-lived. In this story, Yefefiya and Yemima fight, disguised as men, for the affections of handsome Yashefe. When blows to their armor lay bare their true identities, the two women decide to share Yashefe. The three happy lovers marry Maśoś, Yashefe’s servant, to Tsipor, Yashefe’s sister, and Yefefiya and Yemima instruct Tsipor in the ways of love and love poetry. Poetry itself symbolizes and takes credit for the lovers’ reconciliation, a fact that Maśoś, Yafefiya, and Yemima acknowledge when they say, in praise of Yashefe’s poem, “hine amrotekha ma-nevarot im meforadot nelaqeṭ mi-peninim ve-im meḥubarot ʿanaq neqasher mitsavronim (Schirmann 1939, 244; ll. 306–07; How pure are your sayings. If they are prose, we collect pearls, if verse, we connect the pieces into a necklace). Maśoś continues this praise of poetry in the poem that follows: How flowery are his words to the palate a precious stone gathered if in prose; make them a golden necklace upon the neck if in verse. Write them in myrrh in writing with the look of his cheek and the lovers will learn how sweet they are, how lovely, beautiful like gold, how pleasant.3

While Maśoś’s poem does not explicitly favor poetry over prose, it equates poetry with consummate writing: synonyms that mean ‘gold’ forge a connection between the necklace of poetry in the second verse and the description of the words in the final verse. Drawing on the technical terms in Arabic, in which prose (manthūr) literally means scattered and poetry (manẓūm) ordered, his poem suggests that poetry is the more perfect form of the two in its ability to create a unified necklace with the discrete components that prose provides. Aside from the debate in the second story, this is the most overt discussion of poetry and prose to appear in the text, and it is a peaceable one that accepts that the two share their origins in language, even if it favors poetry slightly. It may not be a coincidence that Ben Elʿazar would reverse his earlier argument here, roughly three-quarters through the collection of stories. This reversal comes in the second-to-last of the collection’s love stories and seems to provide both a break from the action-filled love stories and a reflection on the role of love and poetry. This key discussion of poetry features love: Maśoś’s poem 3.

“ma-nimletsu milav leḥekh / leshem leqoṭ im nifredu // śimem revid zahav ʿale / tsavar beʿet yitaḥadu // kotvem be-mor bikhtav ke-ʿen / leḥyo ve-dodim yilmedu // ma-matequ ma-naʿamu / yafu khe-faz maneḥmedu” (Schirmann 1939, 244; ll. 308–11).

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notes not only the indebtedness of poetry to prose but also the indebtedness of lovers to poetry. Poetry allows the poet-lover both to express love for the beloved and to perceive the beauty in this expression. Verse thus enhances love. The narrator expounds on this theory in the next portion of the story, in which Yefefiya and Yemima instruct Tsipor in the art and language of love: “vatelamedna le-tsipor eshet maśoś divre ha-ahava ve-yakhinu bah ruaḥ nediva” (Schirmann 1939, 246; ll. 344–45; They taught Tsipor, the wife of Maśoś, the words of love and established in her a spirit of nobility). In context, this “spirit of nobility” seems synonymous with an understanding of courtly behavior and courtly love poetry: when she grasps their meaning, she recites a poem on the enlightening quality of the game of love. The story of Yashefe’s escapade with Yefefiya and Yemima recedes into the background to accommodate the author’s metapoetic discussion of love poetry. Spanning from Maśoś’ ruminations on poetry and prose through Tsipor’s concluding poem, the discussion prefigures the discourses on courtly love poetry in the subsequent love story of the collection. In that story, Ben Elʿazar does not take a break from the progression of the plot to discuss matters of love poetry, since Sahar’s growing understanding of love poetry is what moves the plot forward. In the story of Yashefe, the discussion of love poetry comes only after the story has come to a genial conclusion, and for this reason it appears to serve more of a didactic than narrative purpose. Perhaps this didactic pause symbolizes Ben Elʿazar’s reevaluation of his earlier statements on poetry and his preparation for the ninth story, in which he puts forth a thoroughly in-bono vision of poetry. The ninth story of the collection even more markedly illustrates poetry as the conveyor of courtly love. In the story, Ben Elʿazar traces the journey of Sahar, a boy who washes ashore in a town after surviving a rough storm at sea and courts Kima, the town’s princess. Kima entices Sahar with her compositions and, through the course of their courtship tests Sahar as a poetlover (Scheindlin 1994, 17) and uses poetry to instruct him how to be a virtuous lover. Sahar, in turn, gives Kima poems that show his developing grasp of the rules of courtly love (Decter 2007, 147). The two marry with the permission of Kima’s father, who subsequently dies, leaving Sahar to rule as king and to continue the game of love with Kima. Romance features drive the plot of the story: when Sahar bemoans Kima’s mere kiss on the hand, Kima informs him in verse that this is “torat yedidim haʿadinim” (Schirmann 1939, 257; l. 262b; the doctrine of gentle lovers). Although examples of this modest hand kiss are found in Hebrew poetry, the underlying custom to which Kima refers echoes the spiritual love that Romance courtly love favors over physical demonstrations of love. Another poem, written on a curtain for Sahar to read, advises him to compose poems to Kima — “u-mivḥar shir tehaḥave” (Schirmann 1939, 253; l. 149b; and speak a choice poem) — since he will succeed in earning Kima’s affections if his words please her: “ve-im tet ̣iv devarikha / be-raʿya yesh lekha miqve” (Schirmann 1939, 253; l. 155; But if your words please her / you have hope of the beloved). Through the use of poetry and poetic tropes, Ben Elʿazar draws attention to verse as a concept closely linked to the realm of Romance courtly love: the lover needs to know how to compose poetry in order to win the affections of his beloved. Yet elements from Arabic love poetry are never far from sight: another composition, for instance, strings together tropes from the Arabic tradition that describe the lady’s appearance — her lips, saliva, and flesh — to provide Sahar direction on how he may produce successful compositions. Ben Elʿazar, who draws on the Romance courtly love tradition, would have been aware that at its core was the idealization of love, even if all love was considered “more or less wicked” (Lewis

Sefer ha-meshalim and the status of poetry in medieval Iberia137 1958, 17). The author, who likewise looks to the Arabic poetic tradition via its Hebrew output, was also clearly familiar with the adage that poetry consists of lies, given the Man of Prose’s accusation of poetry as lying. Love and poetry in the world of these maqamas represent, at best, idealizations of the truth, and at worst, lies. This literary circumstance does not undercut Ben Elʿazar’s credibility as author; he is as candid about the wily nature of poetry in the second maqama as he is about Sahar’s necessary glorification of his beloved in verse in the ninth. Further, he discusses the fictional nature of his text in the prologue and reveals his own true identity alongside that of his fictional narrator, giving his reader insight into his literary technique and frame of reference. Fiction — albeit fiction that attempted to represent reality — was not only a prerequisite of both Arabic and Hebrew maqamas (Drory 2000a, 197) but was also gaining traction in the nascent Romance vernacular traditions. In its straddling of both European and Middle Eastern literary traditions, Sefer ha-meshalim demonstrates the flexibility that the mixed form lent the author: Ben Elʿazar’s ideal reader, who would have been accustomed to the use of prosimetrum in the context of medieval Hebrew writing, was able to focus attention on the author’s novel treatment of love poetry in Hebrew and, in turn, on the interactions between the new contents and the use of mixed form. Ironically, very few readers would have been able to access and fully appreciate this text: only those Jews of Christian Iberia with thorough educations in both religious and secular studies and with an awareness of the literary climate of the Romance world would have been able to read and understand its contents. Today the text remains largely inaccessible to Romance scholars, with translations of two of the stories into Spanish (Alba Cecilia 2008; Navarro Peiro 1962) and one into English (Rosen 2006). Such historical realities limit both the degree to which other Jewish writers might have adopted some of these practices and the awareness on the part of their Christian counterparts that such hybrid possibilities existed. A sparse readership, in turn, calls into question the relevance of relying too heavily on a Hebrew prosimetrum to support theories of literary influences of the Hebrew text on its Romance/Christian counterparts. One such inquiry nevertheless allows for a broader assessment of shifting literary trends — in this case representations of love and love poetry, specifically the development of courtly love practices. That Ben Elʿazar was aware of the latest developments in Romance love poetics and cultural attitudes towards poetry underscores the pervasive nature of these phenomena. As a relative outsider, he was able to understand and, even more remarkably, translate these practices into his literary framework. Today’s reader has become the new outsider, poised to appreciate the relevance of Ben Elʿazar’s contribution in the frame of comparative studies: Sefer ha-meshalim plays the indispensible role of the go-between, providing an ideal opportunity to assess shifting representations of poetry, love, and love poetry.

Pastoral. The pastoral romance Maria do Céu Fraga For almost a century, from the middle of the sixteenth to the first decades of the seventeenth centuries, a new literary genre flourished in the Iberian Peninsula that gained much popularity among a mainly feminine court audience: the pastoral romance. The works that fall under this category are of varied quality and style, but have as common features the presence of shepherds as main characters in stories in which amorous themes predominate and narratives in which poems are interspersed to create an intense emotional atmosphere. The pastoral novel has been well studied in Spain, where it was the subject of fundamental studies such as those by Juan Bautista Avalle-Arce (1974) and Francisco López Estrada (1974, 1984, 1990), and it has had the benefit of a strong tradition of textual edition, which today has gained renewed impetus. In Portugal the genre did not enjoy the same critical attention. It seemed almost as if the national literary history could not forgive a genre that was founded in the Iberian Peninsula by a Portuguese writer — Jorge de Montemor, who signed his name in Castilian as Montemayor — who wrote in Castilian (a language which was also the choice of the Portuguese writers Miguel Botelho de Carvalho and Manuel Raia Fernandes, and of the Sardinian Antonio de Lofrasso). On the other hand, perhaps the attempts to decipher possible allusions in the texts to real events, which had occupied the attention of critics until the middle of the twentieth century, obscured an appreciation of the literary value of the texts. Today, renewed interest in the pastoral romance is reflected in new studies and editions of various authors and works (Cirugião 1976; Lobo 2003, 2004, 2007), as well as in new work on the history of the genre such as that of Roberto Mulinacci (1999), which pays attention to the originality of the Portuguese romance in the context of the Iberian bucolic tradition.

The conventions of the pastoral As opposed to many literary genres, it is possible to identify the foundation of the pastoral romance in Iberia, which can be traced to 1559, with the publication of Los siete libros de la Diana (The seven books of Diana) by Jorge de Montemor, and which was followed by the publication of more than thirty titles in the Castilian and Portuguese literature up until the third decade of the seventeenth century. The first book about shepherds in Portuguese was published in 1601 — A Primavera (The spring), by Francisco Rodrigues Lobo, which, despite this late appearance, conformed in great degree to the conventions of the pastoral in the Iberian context, if accentuating certain aspects of the genre. The relatively short period during which the pastoral romance flourished explains its homogenity, and the common understanding of the world and of literature that characterizes the more than thirty titles which, directly or indirectly, follow the tradition that passes from the Arcadia of Jacopo Sannazaro and establish their more immediate roots in the Diana of Jorge de Montemor. The Portuguese pastoral romances, the writing (if not the circulation) of which was doi 10.1075/chlel.29.14fra © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Pastoral. The pastoral romance139 quite compressed in chronological terms, show the mark of the mannerist style, as well as an idea of national crisis. In its different modes, which include drama, narrative, and lyric, pastoral literature was the perfect literary form for societies looking for escapism; imaginary worlds in which artifice is, in itself, a font of diversion and play. Convention is central to pastoral literature, and perhaps it is due to this that the pastoral forms were to rapidly fall out of favor. Some recovered after centuries of neglect, as is the case with the eclogue, which after its initial formulation by Virgil, was reborn in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries to become an academic exercise in the following centuries, subsisting as a poetic curiosity up until today. Others, such as the pastoral romance, seem to have definitively concluded their literary trajectory. In this regard, the Iberian pastoral romance well illustrates the cycle of life and death, as conceived by Alastair Fowler (1997), that characterizes many literary genres. It is possible to follow this process in its general tendencies, from the moment in which its essential elements, secondary in other genres, are organized and integrated so as to form a new literary genre, and consequently invested with new symbolic values, to the moment in which this new system disintegrates, having lost its significative capacity. In a suggestive image, Avalle-Arce (1974, 13) alludes to the birth of Athena to describe how, as Athena emerges perfectly formed from the head of Zeus, the genre also achieves its maturity in the book that is its first expression, and which becomes the model for all other writers. The romance of Jorge de Montemor, the poet and musician who, in 1543, was part of the retinue of the Portuguese princess D. Maria, daughter of King D. João III, when she married Philip, son of Charles V, manages to unite all the ingredients that the age looked for in fiction, and held the added interest of hiding, under a pastoral disguise, real incidents from court life. Under an apparent singularization of events, the pastoral plot presents idealized characters, involved in linear actions which, in accord with the bucolic tradition, escape from the fixity of chronological time and space. A mythic time and space frame the pastoral plot, which lacks the exterior elements that would provoke psychological change in the many characters involved in the various love affairs. The plot is devised in terms of an analysis of ideal love, and the characters lend themselves to the illustration of the models of contemporary court behavior. On the other hand, Montemor explores the pastoral tradition, incarnating Ernst Robert Curtius’s (1990, 185–90) idea that the world of the shepherds is a cross-section of all worlds, and provokes, through the diversity of characters and their stories, various points of interest for the possible reader of the time. In the wake of the immediate success of La Diana, which was to have twenty editions before the end of the century, Alonzo Pérez takes up the narrative, publishing in 1563 the Segunda Parte de la Diana (Second part of Diana); the following year Gaspar Gil Polo publishes the Diana enamorada (Diana in love). It is the escape from chronological time that allows for these sequels to the original novel. The characters in the pastoral do not evolve and the plot does not move towards a natural ending, and so there is a certain level of arbitrariness in the conclusion of the narrative, with the recourse to the deus ex machina, for example, in the water with which the wise Felicia provokes the forgetfulness of the enamored pastors, restoring them to a peaceful state. For the same reason, given that the object of the pastoral romance was not to trace biographies, but to describe exemplary situations, Montemor is not interested in definitively concluding actions, or resolving all the threads of his narrative. If we take into account that the realism of the

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fifteenth and sixteenth century novels cannot be judged with reference to the criteria that orient the fiction of today, we can see that the internal limitations of the pastoral romance opened a path to the creation of a new authoritative model for fictional writing. The pastoral romances were particularly susceptible to continuations thanks to their plotting and characters, but already the third attempt to create a sequel to the Diana, Jerónimo de Tejada’s version from 1627, showed the incompatibility of the pastoral romance with an attempt to transmit a more immediate and realistic version of the empirical world. Montemor’s work marks the inauguration of the pastoral romance, and, at the same time, constitutes an end point. In the mid-sixteenth century sentimental and chivalric romances were still read, and in these elements of pastoral were already present. The chivalric romances, for example, already included pastors, as López Estrada (1974, 323ff.) notes in the work of Feliciano de Silva. There were also pastors in the Byzantine novel of Alonso Núñez Reinoso, Clereo y Florisea (1552), even if disguised as noble characters. In one of the books which was to exercise a direct influence on Montemor, the sentimental novel of Bernardim Ribeiro, Menina e Moça (The book of the young girl, c. 1550), the unhappily enamored Bimnarder moved in social rank from knight to shepherd, bringing his misadventures into a new sphere of literary expression. One of the factors which was to have decisive importance in the immediate acceptance of the pastoral romance was its capacity to harmonize various literary traditions, each with their own symbolic system of significance, in a single story. In this respect, which would be developed with exemplary brio with Cervantes, the pastoral romance presaged modern narrative.

The shepherd It is impossible to analyze the pastoral romance without taking into consideration the bucolic tradition within which, in the vernacular languages, but also in Latin, developed the artistic representation of the shepherd. Renaissance Europe was susceptible to bucolic and pastoral imaginary, whether for its appropriation of the ancient world’s literary tradition, or for its capacity to represent a new ideal for the human and for the social. Iberian literature consecrated Garcilaso de la Vega, whose eclogues crystallized the poetic values of a tradition that stretched back to antiquity and had been renewed by the renaissance artists. In an era in which literary fiction tended towards stereotypical characters, and in which society was represented as a restricted grouping of types, the shepherd constituted one of the most defined but also one of the most versatile characters, as Herrera notes in his commentary on Garcilaso, as does Sebastián de Covarrubias in his Tesoro de la lengua Castellana o Española (Treasure of the Castilian language or Spanish, 1611). At a later date, Francisco Rodrigues Lobo will note this same capacity in the shepherd, and this is significant as Lobo is one of the most important writers of pastoral romance in Portuguese literary history, as well as in the critical study and theorization of the courtly tradition (Belchior 1985). His “Discurso sobre a vida, e estilo dos pastores” (Discourse on shepherds’ life and style) antecedes his volume of the Eclogues, published in 1605, which is around the same time as the publication of his pastoral trilogy (Lobo 1928). Without being notably original, Rodrigues Lobo distances himself from Castilian models, perhaps because he takes account of the literary production that has occurred between the writing of his work and that of the paradigmatic models for the pastoral romance. In effect, this

Pastoral. The pastoral romance141 introductory text shows a knowledge of the literary tendencies of the time and is of interest in its sensitive and erudite analysis of the mythic-symbolic value attributed to the figure of the pastor at the beginnings of the sixteenth century. In this discourse the bucolic is the doutrina verdadeira de avisados (true doctrine of the knowledgeable), which can be justified on both affective and rational grounds. According to this doctrine, the only reasonable life is one in accord with nature, an idea supported by the desire for the mythical Golden Age, whether with classical or biblical antecedents, in which humans lived lives of peaceful virtue. Throughout the text the connotations of the figure of the pastor, which allow us to speak of pastoral literature, or, to use a more vague term, bucolic literature, present us with a characterization of the corpus in terms of the status of the character. Independently of the epoch and the literary tradition within which the text is inscribed, there is a unity of significance in the figure of the pastor that exceeds the frontiers of the genre of the text. Whether it be a pastor from an eclogue of Garcilaso or Luís de Camões, a Vicentine drama or a romance, or a song of profane or divine love, this figure will constitute, not the simple representation of social type, but the reduction of the individual — whatever individual — to their essential traits with the accentuation of characteristics that permit their placement in an idealized environment in which the bucolic predominates (Fraga 1989). In a genre such as the eclogue, concisely defined as a “dialogue between pastors,” this process is quite exact, thanks to the conditions of enunciation, which allow for the combination of the personal and the discreet elision of the empirical author; and it is even more precise when the poet places the pastor in an idealized and purified world that emphasizes passion and suffering. This tradition will be explored in the pastoral narrative, which is often presented as an imitation à clef of real events and adventures, with the characters assuming the traits of court personages who have temporarily taken on the role of pastors in order to find the tranquility that destiny has denied them. Pastoral society, more than just an escape from the realities of social life, represents an idealization of human types and relations present within the contemporary society. That is, pastoral literature is not so much a simplification of the social world, but a reduction of the individual to his or her most significant traits and with the pastor, the type who is the result of this process, to a basic analogy of the real, whose purity allows for intense suffering and passion (Ettin 1984). Pastoral society is justified by the emotion that drives it, love, and its expression imposes social and, above all, psychological values, such as friendship and the authority of age and experience. At the same time, the genre seeks artistic validity, in other words, verisimilitude, the perfect harmony of character, theme, and style. A genre that flourishes in the mannerist era, the pastoral romance, in the beginning at least, is not beholden to an idea of mimetic realism that will later become a virtue for baroque writers, leading them in their prologues to justify the artifice of their works, or to point out their allegorical significance. At the heart of the pastoral novel is the neo-platonic idealization that at the time defined the ideal human, and means that the pastors were models for the values and behavior of court society. These neo-platonic models were often disseminated in spheres not directly related to philosophical speculation but which had a devoted public in the court. Books such as the Dialoghi d’amore (Dialogues of love, 1535) of Leo the Hebrew (Leão Hebreu in Portuguese, León Hebreo in Spanish) or the Il cortegiano (The book of the courtier, 1528) of Baldassare Castiglione (translated to Castilian by Boscán in 1534), became manuals for correct behavior in all aspects of

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life, including the amorous. In literature, Pietro Bembo’s adaptation of neo-platonism allowed for petrarchism to become a code for the conduct of love affairs. In this way, the pastoral romance allowed for the transmission of ideals in an attractive form, through exemplary cases organized in a narrative sequence. In these texts shepherdesses who encarnate virtue and chastity converse on love with lamenting shepherds, seeking to define their emotions and the cause of their sufferings. Often the young men receive the advice of more experienced shepherds, who are free from the tyranny of love, and, even if taking recourse to magic, undergo experiences of spiritual purification that make them worthy of their beloved. Their tales reinforce the idea, expressed by the wise Felicia in La Diana, that “los que sufren son los mejores” (those that suffer are best).

The narrative plot The stories that interweave throughout each text are united by a single sentimental base, subtly accentuated by the poems and songs that fill the air with golden tones. Technically, the pastoral romance takes advantage of the storytelling structure typical of the Byzantine novel, which the publication of Heliodorus’s Aethiopica in 1554 had shown to be able to captivate an audience. The stories multiply themselves, involving characters that accidentally encounter the central character, and have the function of reiterating the expression of similar emotions in a variety of examples. Each text, then, contains a large number of characters, involved in different stories, but united in their amorous concerns. Apart from the dialogues, often extensive and derivative of literaryphilosophical treatises, it is the stylized actions of the pastors that constitute models for amorous conduct, presenting fundamental characteristics that are necessary for proper courtly behavior. In the dialogues and in the narration, the style reveals a notably delicate and imaginative language. In effect, the narrative prose acquires a level of stylization that, in certain moments, allows the expression of sentiment more suited to poetry, the traditional form in which to express extreme emotion. The bucolic supposedly, according to the norms of poetics, requires a low or humble style, but in truth, as in the eclogues, the declared artifice of the texts allows for the delicacy of language to appear natural, and often leads to a highly sophisticated tone, both in the prose and the interspersed lyrics. The pastoral romance becomes, ultimately, a space for poetic experimentation. The alliance between prose and verse in the pastoral universe had been established at the start of the sixteenth century in the Arcadia of Sannazaro. Marked by the influence of petrarchism and its conception of poetry as the recreation and analysis of lived situations, the work of the Neapolitan was infused by a faint narrative thread that allowed for the linking of prose passages and verse compositions. At the same time, it recuperated a bucolic tradition with roots in the work of Theocritus and Virgil. Montemor’s talent lay in his combination of lyric tension with narrative progression, with the objective of creating characters that adopt love as the motivational basis for all their actions. More than actions, it is the characters that are at the base of the narrative architecture of the pastoral romance, a trait which accords well with the spirit of the epoch. The interconnection of narrative threads, typical of the pastoral romance (López Estrada 1974, 323ff.), is a narrative technique shared with other fictional genres of the epoch. Its adequation

Pastoral. The pastoral romance143 to the romance derives above all from its not imposing a hierarchization on the various stories recounted, nor in their convergence, permitting therefore a multiplication of cases and characters without this implying an excess of compositional complexity. The central characters are at the base of the main narrative, and the secondary narratives emerge as new characters appear who tell of their misadventures. Often the narrative thread is quite feeble, consisting of a journey of pilgrimage, whether in the search of an aim outside the shepherd, or in search of interior purification, which is marked by encounters with other wanderers to whom the pastor tells his tale. The characters, who normally number in the dozens, walk together for some time, and, demonstrating the eternal value of friendship in Arcadia, freely offer advice, exchange confidences, telling their stories and debating the causes of their suffering. In moments of greatest tension they break into song. Action here is secondary, and does not even require a logical progression (the recourse to the marvellous is often used to resolve the narrative, despite being one of the artifices censured by poetic norms). Through this creative process the author manages to combine in one text the most varied imaginative spheres, as each new character brings with him his lived story, and his particular physical and social sphere. In this way new elements are brought to the casuistic analysis of love and, at the same time, bring variety to the narrative voice. As a result of these stories, if in a discreet manner, the pastoral romance tends to break free from the predominance of the masculine in the bucolic fictional world. If in some eclogues the figure of the shepherdess appears to enter into dialogue with the pastor (in Garcilaso and in Camões), in the romance the female character acts and decides, and, despite being the object of a masculine gaze, possesses her own narrative voice. In the Diana, Selvagia, Belisa, and Felisma become the narrators of their stories, and they do not hold back in their criticisms of their masculine counterparts. But it is undeniable that the masculine perspective is that which predominates, and that the feminine figure is above all the motivating factor, and often a figure absent from the narrative itself. The Diana consists of three fundamental stories, made up of various episodes that take place in different settings: the pastoral, the court, and the village. The central story tells the tale of Diana, a shepherdess of great beauty, who loves Sireno and is loved in return with “toda la limpieza e honestidade posible” (Montemayor 1981, 108; all possible purity and honesty), and who, at the same time, despises Sylvano. Unfortunately, Sireno is called away from the kingdom, and Diana, after a period of great sadness, marries Delio. The narrative proper begins when Sireno, now disillusioned, expresses the suffering that memories of his former happiness cause him (from here on Sireno will only recover his happiness when he loses his memory, after drinking the magic potion prepared for him by the wise Felicia). This narrative structure, which will later be exploited with great brilliance in the Galatea of Cervantes, allows for the confluence in one text of various spheres of action, some of which are quite distinct from the world of pastoral. In this way, though the various plots of the Galatea can be distinguished, only the central one is truly pastoral. This is the story of Galatea, who receives with courtesy, but also with indifference, the homage of two shepherds — Elicio, the courtly pastor, and Erastro, the rustic pastor — until her father decides to wed her to an unknown shepherd. As with the stories of many of the other characters of the text (there are almost ninety of these in total), the conclusion of Galatea’s story is held in suspense, with the promise at the end of the book to tell the rest of the story at a future date. Due to the unpredictability of the genre, and also of the author, this conclusion could take many different routes. There are many interweaved

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stories in the Galatea, centering on different groups of characters. Among these some will remain unfinished, as in the case of the main narrative. López Estrada and María Teresa López García-Berdoy (1995, 29–39) distinguish and indicate the literary roots of each one of the stories: “familiar hate,” “two friends,” “two twins,” “kidnapping,” “the freedom to love,” and “love between old men and shepherdesses.” Thus the different narratives belong to different literary traditions, and their tone is varied, but they are united in that they concord with the conceptualization of love prevalent in the pastoral.

Troubles without end In contrast with the unity provoked by a common ideal, the characters are many, and diverse. In many cases, the story with which they are involved remains open, which is to say that the biography of each character is not what is fundamental, in that they represent, not an individual course, but an unchangeable archetype. However, the reader will often find the characters intriguing because of the curiosity and sympathy they evoke. Because of this, from the Diana on it became normal for the author to promise to continue the narrative and satisfy the curiosity and sympathy of the readers. The fulfillment of this promise was, however, rare. In many cases the author would even challenge other talents to think of a fitting conclusion, which might lead us to believe that the original promises were little more than a stereotypical gesture. The Portuguese novel, on the other hand, has a tendency to supply its pastoral tales with a conclusion (from this perspective, the Portuguese novel, which strenghtens the power of the narrative, also accepts the possibility of a change in the circumstances of the characters, instead of thinking of each of them as immutable examples of a paradigm). Manuel Fernandes Raia, who wrote in Castilian, published, in 1624 and 1629 respectively, the first and second part of the novel Esperança engañada (Hope fooled), which recount the disillusion and later conversion of Almeno and Isabela to divine service, after the most diverse and extraordinary adventures. A third installment is announced at the end of the second part, but this never sees publication. In any case, the second part had seemed to definitively conclude the pastors’ tale, and even for the fertile imagination of Fernandes Raia it would be difficult to alter their path, which followed the path of worldly disappointment so typical of the Portuguese pastoral romance (Rodrigues Lobo, Fernão Álvares do Oriente). More interesting is the case of Rodrigues Lobo, author of a sequence of three pastoral novels, conclusively finished with the publication of the third volume. His case is most interesting in the sense that the progression of his three books seems to illustrate the process of change within the pastoral novel as it becomes more exposed to other novelistic spheres and more complex narrative processes. On the whole the unity of the three texts is achieved, but he progressively adds more and more areas of novelistic interest, in a movement which could be described as spiral, and which avoids the monotony that could have been a factor if the same structure had been repeated in all three volumes (P. S. Pereira 2003). More than the reappearance in the three texts of similar characters and the allusions to past episodes, it is the characterization of the central character, Lereno, and the perspective of the author, which unify the narrative. At the beginning of the second volume, Rodrigues Lobo affirms that he wrote it not “acabar cuidados que não [têem] fim, antes por dar gosto a quem o mostra

Pastoral. The pastoral romance145 ter de ouvir seus queixumes” (Lobo 2003, 48; to conclude troubles that never end, but rather to satisfy those who like to hear complaints). In this second book, the return of Lereno to his native soil would allow for a happy conclusion to the tale. This conclusion does seem to be prefigured in the re-encounter with his shepherdess that seems to prove that his luck is changing, and that he is destined for happiness. At the same time, in a mythical scene Lereno sees his poetic talent recognized, receiving a consecrating crown from the hand of Apollo. At the same time, the narrator reminds us that many stories are still to be finished, and urges the reader to consider what will ultimately befall Lereno. These are pages dedicated to those who “quiser nestes humildes princípios fazer fundamento” (Lobo 2004, 301; want to make of these humble principles a foundation). The sentimental romances had already emphasized the unfinished nature of their characters’ troubles, reflected in the fact that the lack of conclusion to Bernadim Ribeiro’s Menina e Moça could be interpreted by a later writer, Gaspar Frutuoso, as a literary strategy to formally echo real life: like troubles, stories are also without end. On finishing the third volume, however, Francisco Rodrigues Lobo concludes Loreno’s story, in which he returns to his point of departure, where, completely disillusioned, he “escolheu para sepultura de passados gostos o esquecimento e para defensão contra os desejos a certeza do pouco espaço que os bens duram” (Lobo 2007, 221; chose forgetfulness as a tomb for his previous passions and as a defence against desire the knowledge of the perishability of things). Naturally, it would always be possible to reanimate these desires, but the text emphasizes the finality of the pastors’ adventures in a specific physical and spiritual moment. The titles of each volume underline Lereno’s evolution: Primavera (Spring) reflects Lereno’s hopeful beginnings, O pastor peregrino (The wandering shepherd) his purgatorial suffering, and O desenganado (The disenchanted) his ultimate disillusion.

Fiction and realism One of the attractive traits, but, simultaneously, one of the causes of the pastoral romance’s decline, is the relationship between fiction and reality they depict. It is wrong to read the novels of the sixteenth and seventeenth century with contemporary criteria of realism; in these novels, neoplatonic realism implied a respect for convention, and this convention was what guaranteed a sense of verisimilitude. In Garcilaso de la Vega’s Eglogue II one of the pastors, Albanio, intratextually highlights the speculative reflections of his companion, Salicio, and points to the lack of verisimilitude of the situation: “quién te hizo filósofo elocuente, / Siendo pastor d’ovejas y de cabras?” (Vega 1985, 147; who made you an eloquent philosopher / you who are a shepherd of sheep and goats?). This discrepancy is, however, not registered by the reader — the “benevolent reader” addresed in the prologue — as a lack of decorum, and the question alludes to the fact that verisimilitude is judged in accord with literary creativity and the conventions of the adopted genre. In pastoral literature it is possible to distinguish two major tendencies (Corti 1969). These are both marked by evasion and the playful constitution of a fictitious world, but are in opposition, in that one attempts to reconstruct the world of pastors in accordance with ideas of verisimilitude, whereas the other finds its motivation and the verisimilitude of plot and characters in artistic refinements and convention. The role of fantasy, and the mimetic irrealism of the characters and their lives were the target of attack and ridicule even in the period of the pastoral romance’s

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greatest success. Cervantes, while respecting the norms of the pastoral romance, explored in the Galatea many of the issues that would later be developed in the Quixote, and even caricatured the genre in the Novelas ejemplares (Exemplary novels, 1613). Berganza, the speaking dog in the Coloquio de los perros (Colloquy of the dogs), showed his perplexity when he compared the real life of pastors with their literary representation in the books his master loved, and ridiculed their lack of veracity. In the pastoral romances we can identify two major groups of shepherds. Some almost melt into the scenery, animating the bucolic universe with their songs as they shepherd their flocks and, even if they speak of sentiments with great subtlety, live in a simple way. On the other hand, the pastors that take on major roles in the romances correspond to a more elaborate literary type of the epoch: the enamored pastor, an unhappy prisoner of destiny. He comports himself in accord with the cliches of the treatises on courtly behavior, and because of this discusses love and suffering with the sophistication of any court personage. The delicacy of their conversations, marked with a knowledge of the literature and philosophy of the epoch, often mirrors the static nature of the dialogues between intellectuals in the treatises on courtly behavior that were so appreciated around the middle of the sixteenth century. In a typically Cervantine move, these two types were confounded in the Galatea in the figures of the two shepherds, Elicio and Erastro, and the disregard for boundaries between literary traditions that each one represents. The first, at the beginning corresponds to the prototype of an enamored pastor, unhappy and self-obsessed, whereas the second, who appears on the scene accompanied by his hounds, is an active shepherd, who is occupied with his flock and their welfare. But this opposition is dissolved: if in the beginning the reader hears the lament of Elicio, soon Erastro shows himself to be impassioned and unhappy, in a situation similar to that of Elicio. The narrative development makes it seem natural that Elicio acts in a way unthinkable for the poetic type of enamored pastor: he aims to win his shepherdess, not by self-purification through suffering, nor through the softening of her indifference, but through physical force. The novelty here is not in creating a more or less realistic portrait of the lives of pastors, but in allowing for the convergence in each character traits from literary types belonging to different worlds, and ruled by different conventions. This is the technique that Cervantes will develop in the Quixote and is facilitated by the expectations aroused by the codes of the pastoral romance.

Autobiography and literary coherence Writers use pastoral to speak about real events, people, and often, themselves. Jorge de Montemor provides the example here, who takes on the court style of the time of Charles V in his mixture of the stylized idealization of the bucolic with court behavior, and who also understands fiction as a literary transposition of real facts. The Arcadia of Lope de Vega (1598) or the Pastor de Fílida of Gálvez de Montalvo (The shepherd of Fílida, 1582), are also examples of this tendency, which can at times be the motive for the most unexpected developments. Maria Roca Mussons (1992, 7–64), in her preface to the facsimile edition of the work of Lofrasso, explains the imprisonment of the pastor Frexano, on suspicion of murder, an episode which does not conform to genre expectations, as the transposition of a real event that had significance for the author. This is also her explanation for the urban and court environment in which the action unfurls in Books 6 and 9,

Pastoral. The pastoral romance147 so alien to the pastoral world. On the other hand, it is the authors themselves who, on many occasions in prologues to the reader, underline the autobiographic character of the adventures narrated (the hypothesis that the Diana was placed on the Index due to its allusions to real life has sometimes been made). Until recently, critics have attempted to decipher the code that would allow them to recuperate the situations evoked. It is true that, in an era in which individualism was marked, the pastoral disguise allowed the poet to analyze his feelings without speaking in the first person voice of the Romantics. But it is also true that in an aesthetic interpretation of the works, the denominator pastoral, more than just hiding the real identity of lovers, intensifies the poetic sense of relations, taking bucolic poetry away from the sphere of rational judgement (Gallego Morell 1970). The plotting and the novelistic character of the texts implies a literary treatment of events and characters; but at the same time, to absolutely ignore the possible allusions to real life the romances may contain would be to lose part of the pleasure they provided to contemporary readers. Without falling into the positivism of biographical interpretation, it is undeniable that Fernão Alvares do Oriente’s Lusitânia Transformada (Lusitania transformed, 1607), for example, gains new meaning for the reader capable of recognizing that the pastors of Nabão, include, apart from the author, Jorge de Montemor, Camões, and Diogo Bernardes. The inclusion of autobiographical moments means that the author is required to give literary and artistic coherence to adventures that take place outside of the fictional, bucolic world. The solutions to these difficulties are not always adequate: it is sufficient to recall the incoherence of the pastoral world and narrative threads of Gaspar Mercader i Carròs’s El Prado de Valencia (The meadow of Valencia, 1600), an almost poetic anthology that reflects too directly the sociocultural atmosphere of the court of the viceroy and literary academy of Valencia at the end of the sixteenth century.

Space The representation of space in the romances also presents the ambiguity that constitutes their charm. In them are united the classical bucolic imaginary, in which predominates the sweetness of the locus amoenus, and elements that are completely foreign to this imaginary, which range from stormy maritime to city settings and characters from different literary spheres who bring with them their own physical and social spaces. The first pages of these novels almost always conform to the paradigmatic layout of the Diana. They present an idealized bucolic space, described with the detail and subtlety that the Renaissance writers brought to their depictions of nature, in order to afterwards underline the harmony between this natural setting and the central character, an enamored pastor, subject to the tyranny of love and fortune. In this way the filiation to the conventions of the pastoral novel are made explicit, as if to remind the reader of the hermeneutic advantages of recognizing literary artifice and accepting its values. This natural setting, which envelopes the characters and offers an escape from the social world, has above all a lyrical and decorative function, and helps to underline, explicitly or implicitly, the idealized nature of the characters and their actions. The love and communion established between the characters in this setting reminds us that love, the buen amor (good love) of Jorge de Montemor, can only be found in the world of the pastors.

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The bucolic world offers an escape from space and time, in good measure because of the timelessness implied in the evocation of myth and antiquated language, which revives the time of the ancients and universally validated traditions. The pastoral romance, however, while creating an ideal world and traditional archetypes, is also influenced by contemporary culture. Jorge de Montemor, who is widely considered to have had a weak classical education, does not presuppose the existence of a reader who would be well versed in the classics, and thereby opens the doors to writing that would encompass contemporary social and cultural mores. At the same time, he designs his romances in accord with a notion of the exemplary. In a curious observation, Bobadilla explains that he set his novel in Henares, as this is the only area that he knows, but which is, at the same time, an area that no-one else knows. With this paradoxical formulation he describes the permanent oscillation of the writer who moves between an objective of symbolic idealization and the attempt, through allegorical reference, to tie the works to the circumstances that inspired them. In its most perfect realizations, the pastoral romance manages to reconcile expectations of contemporaneity with the neo-platonic realism of its descriptions. Alongside the utopic descriptions and settings, there are other markers that allow for the geographic localization of the action that takes place: the exact description of geographical landmarks, the existence of specific cities, and the recreation of social elements absolutely foreign to the idealized world, such as popular festivals and the machinations of court life, as in the novels set in Valencia. Bernardo de Balbuena points directly to this fusion of an idealized reality and archaic myth in the title of his novel, Siglo de oro en las Selvas de Erifile (The Golden age in the forests of Erifile, 1608), and in the development of his narrative shows that nature has lost the characteristics that once made her the foundation of bucolic perfection. Even more expressive is the exoticism of Lusitânia Transformada, which seems to take into account the charm that travel literature held for readers of the time, who were eager to learn of new civilizations. The shepherds, living in the idyllic space of Nabão, celebrate friendship and remember past misfortunes, and tell tales of various types, in which there is no lack of shipwrecks, chivalrous adventure, and sentimental narrative. The supposed voyages of the pastors allow them to roam over the extent of the Portuguese empire, from Goa, homeland of Felício, to the heart of the Portugal, spaces which are evoked in tales with precise but idealized geographical detail. The pastors also detail the different customs of the places they have visited, and there are even stories that take at least their flavor from Eastern tradition, although without losing the fundamental characteristics of the pastoral. In this way, the pastoral indulges the “natural inclinação de ver gentes estranhas, terras várias, e costumes diferentes” (Oriente 1985, 21; natural inclination to see different peoples, countries, and customs). If the unknown appealed to the imagination and allowed for greater idealization, the known world also infiltrated the pastoral, through art, and was often tolerated as having suffered the “derealization” typical of bucolic description. Urban space and praise of the city are present in the Diana, if in an exagerrated manner. The placing of court personages in the narratives led to transformations that were paradigmatically represented in the humanization of the scenery, which, at the end of the sixteenth and start of the seventeenth century escaped the coordinates of the traditional opposition between the rural and the urban. Cervantes’s pastoral work, the Galatea, was published in 1585 and, reflecting the fact that the development of the pastoral romance is not linear, anticipates traits that were to become frequent

Pastoral. The pastoral romance149 in later texts, in an era in which the pastoral ceased to be relevant to a court society that had changed in outlook. In Book 6, when the prudent Timbrio describes the complex interweaving of rivers and fields by the banks of the Tejo, Elicio considers a humanized landscape. Contemplating the valley, he admires the beauty of the little farms and orchards, the ingenuity of the devices that water the fields, and, finally, finds a way to express the charm of this scene by saying “if the Elysian fields exist in any part of the world, it is without doubt here.”1 The conclusion is inevitable: “the industry of its inhabitants is such that nature, conjoined with art, becomes artificial, a type of art, and between both emerges a third nature, to which I could not give a name.”2 It is in this space that Galatea is found, the shepherdess who, absent like Diana, is at the base of the text’s action.

Poetry and art Music and song form part of the pastoral ambience, and mark the integration of the pastors to an Arcadic space far from the preoccupations of the court where they frequently encounter divinities. The pastor has the orphic power to move the natural world, but his relationship to nature is not only a happy, harmonious one; it can also be discordant and unhappy, marked by the adynata that his laments provoke in the cosmos. In contrast with the song of the pastors in the Arcadia, which is often combined with prose texts, song in the Iberian pastoral romance gains new meanings. In Sannazaro’s Arcadia, in which the elegiac tone of the pastoral lament and the mythic echoes of the prose pieces were underlined, poetry had, above all, an aesthetic and expressive function. In the Diana, to limit the function of poetry to this extent would have made the piece seem a simple lyrical excursion, and not to have given it a real function in the development of the action would have prejudiced the rhythm and unity of the novel. Moreover, the pastoral novels which, due either to the excessive influence of Sannazaro or the author’s lack of ability, did not give the central function to poetry that exists in Montemor’s work, often became more or less accomplished cancioneiros. The pastoral romances retain the traditional self-consciousness of classical bucolic literature, for which poetry, and art in general, is a recurring preoccupation of characters. In sophisticated ways, nature and art are made to harmonize in the narrative, without disturbing the pastoral universe. The idealization of nature and the pastors that inhabit it motivates, with apparent spontaneity, the presence of manmade objects and the attempt to reach perfection. The pastoral novel presents many aspects of bucolic poetry in general. If the eclogue was a genre that invited experimentation, with a large variation in meter and compositional schemes, the pastoral novels also challenged the ingenuity and poetic technique of authors. If in some novels, both in Castilian and Portuguese, a pastor encounters the abandoned accordion of the shepherd Sincero of Sannazaro, then along with explicitly integrating the novel in literary tradition, this discovery underlines the value of poetry as a structuring element in pastoral society.

1.

“si en alguna parte los Campos Elíseos tienen asiento, es, sin duda, en ésta” (Cervantes 1995, 542).

2.

“la industria de sus moradores ha hecho tanto que la Naturaleza, encorporada con el Arte, es hecha artífice y connatural del Arte, y de entrambas a dos se ha hecho una tercia Naturaleza, a la cual no sabré dar nombre” (Cervantes 1995, 542).

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According with the neo-platonic structure that informs these books, there is a parallel between the perfection of the locus amoenus, a symbol of the prodigal creativity of nature, and the perfection of the artistic object, symbol of the pastor’s integration to the harmonious unity of the universe. But if at times humanist ideals become visible, with the exaltation of man in the ennobling capacities of art, there are also moments in which time and the exterior world cease to make sense, or even to be remembered. The song of the pastor, echoing through a perfect nature, is the most elemental way of conciliating the perfection of nature with the creative capacity of man, and, to a certain extent, of opposing the contingency of time to the immortality of art and the pastors celebrated within it. Because of this, the song celebrates feminine beauty. From the Diana with its “Canto de Orfeo,” the pastoral novels comprise eulogies to beautiful shepherdesses who correspond to what at the time would have been identifiable court ladies. In this way, notions of art, feminine beauty, and nature can be intertwined. The pastoral romance often contains considerations of art itself, particularly poetry. While the praise of poets can give rise to catalogs of writers contemporary to the author, the pastors also often discuss the compositions they sing during the narrative. In these commentaries, however, there are often important pages that clarify chapters in which poetical theorization is incomplete or absent. The value that the pastoral world attributed to poetry was influenced by the supposed function of literature in the counter-reformation era. It is not surprising then that a palace the pastors visit in Lusitânia Transformada should be dedicated to “santa Poesia” (saint poetry). This text can be read as a song of praise to the new poetry, sung in a different tone and key, and despite depicting the confluence of worlds that the novelistic tradition allows for, shows the deep influence of Sannazaro. Because of this, Nabão, the world the disillusioned pastors inhabit, constantly provokes poetry, literary debate, and the defence of language, all in the context of the mannerist disenchantment with which Fernão Álvares do Oriente, an admirer of Camões, equates the lack of appreciation for poetry with national crisis. When the pastors enter the temple they are confronted with a scene of ruined splendor, a vista that inspires both amazement and an overwhelming sense of decline. They easily interpret the allegorical significance of the temple’s statues, among which stands out that of Camões, the príncipe dos poetas (prince of poets), as well as the most minute details of the scene. The entire panorama marks Portuguese and Western decadence, symbolized in the abandonment and disdain of true poetry. The pastors do have the certainty, however, that poetry, purified by exile, will enjoy a triumphant return. Because of this they offer themselves as servants, with new songs and new instruments.

The criticism of the pastoral novel The fashion for the pastoral novel is limited in time. Sannazaro gained success by infusing the classical tradition with the tone and themes of petrarchism, in an operation in which two sensibilities, traditionally opposed, allowed for an artistic understanding of the world. In his Arcadia, sentiment was predominant, and the poetry and lyric effusion dominate the tone. The public of the mid-sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, a time still marked by petrarchism and neo-platonism, continued to appreciate poetry, but showed a great appetite for entertaining fiction, whether based on the lives of shepherds or knights, or recounting adventure stories. The

Pastoral. The pastoral romance151 romance as a form was already a major part of public culture (Senabre 1987), and for some time pastors competed for space with the Amadises of previous generations, which themselves began to incorporate pastoral episodes. Discourses on love were popular with a public already familiar with philosophical and literary treatises on the theme, who now found it treated in a light, playful tone, in which prose mixed with verse alongside a great variety of enunciative processes: dialogues, letters, simple narrations. Poetic standards that would define the pastoral romance were never fully formulated. Traits that might identify it are dispersed throughout the prologues and edition licences, and, above all, in the choice of authoritative models to imitate (Głowinski 1976). In this regard, the poetics of the pastoral novel are based in large part upon imitation, and take as their undisputed foundation the work of Montemor, who, as an artist and a court figure, was conscious of the tastes of his time and the desires of his audience. When Sannazaro’s influence is felt (and, in general, Portuguese pastoral makes this dependency quite visible), it is articulated through narrative possibilities already explored by Montemor. At bottom, the Diana already contains the possibilities that would be explored in later novels, and the margin for innovation granted to each author increases without the danger of distorting the genre. The integration of D. Felis’s novel to the narrative allows for the incorporation of court and knightly elements to Arcadia in the same way that the character of Felisma opens the door to moorish exoticism. The presence in later works of marvellous elements, targets of acerbic criticism and already present in the chivalric romances, is justified by the magic water of Felícia, which brings forgetfulness and peace. In the same way, and contrary to Herrera’s commentaries on Garcilaso, Cervantes could justify the presence of murder in the bucolic world of the Galatea. It can be thought that pastoral texts died off because they had exhausted the possibilities of a genre that did not reflect a society that was no longer stagnant and had ceased to make the opposition of city and country a major theme for reflection. Many of the criticisms aimed at pastoral romance made visible the inadequacy of pastoral themes, and these criticisms had already been directed at the romances of love and chivalry. These criticisms were aggravated by the atmosphere of the reformation and the necessity of reminding believers of the ultimate purpose of life so as to help them on the road to salvation. In any case, it is important to note that, in this aspect, critics were much more benevolent with the pastoral texts than with those of chivalry, and often praised the ingenuity and style of the authors and the spiritual character of pastoral atmosphere and plots. However, the pastoral romance could not compete with the demands of the realist texts that were coming into fashion. When, in a much-commented passage of the Quixote (Chapter 6 of Part 1), the curate and the barber search through and destroy the books that they believe to be the cause of Don Quixote’s madness, Cervantes gives voice to the contemporary criticism of the various genres of fiction. When they arrive at the part in the library containing pastoral romance, paradigmatically represented by the Diana of Montemor, the curate decides to save them from the flames: “no hacen ni harán el daño que los de caballerias han hecho, que son libros de entendimiento, sin perjucio de terceros” (they will not cause the same damage as the chivalric romances have, as they are books for understanding, without danger for others). Quixote’s niece shows greater prudence, and proceeds to satirize the irrealism of the pastoral vision, revealing the overlappings between the various types of romance fictions. It is not for moral but for pragmatic reasons that she condemns the pastoral: “it’s very likely that my dear uncle, having been cured of the chivalric disease, will

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read these and want to become a shepherd and wander through the woods and meadows singing and playing, and, what would be even worse, become a poet, and that, they say, is an incurable and contagious disease” (Cervantes 2005, 50).3 This observation also shows the imperceptible sliding in the evaluation of the characters of the romances throughout the sixteenth century, in which literature adapts to the changing tastes and expectations of society, which continued to appreciate fiction as long as it dislocated and renewed its characters and setting. We might well remember that at the end of his adventures, the wandering knight plans on becoming a pastor.

The honest book The discourses of the pastors turn mostly on love and the misfortunes it provokes, and in the majority of cases we could apply Tomás de S. Domingos’s judgment on the first volume of Esperança engañada: “tem curiosidades engenhosas que entretêm sem dano espiritual de quem o ler, porque o estilo é honesto” (Raia 1629, n.p.; it has ingenious aspects that entertain without causing spiritual damage to those who read it, because the style is honest). That is, pastoral literature has no end other than that of entertainment and pleasure, nor is much more expected of it (Augusto 2004a & 2004b). At the same time, the pastoral romance is expected not to cause offense, as Tomás de S. Domingos emphasizes in his licence to João Nunes Freire’s Os Campos Elísios (Elysian fields, 1626): “it is interesting and, in the genre of feigned pastoral loves, the most honest of those that I have so far seen, because despite its treatment of the gallantries of shepherds and shepherdesses, it provokes no lascivious thoughts, but entertains with poetic and historic knowledge.”4 The pastoral romance did not always have ecclesiastical approval, and not all were considered inoffensive. In effect, pastoral, although in a subtle way, promoted a profane spirituality, and in a climate of the neo-platonic love poetry of the time, tended towards an imaginary structure and interpretation of life in which the limits between the profane and religious vocabulary and conceptualization became blurred. The song to profane love, the amorous adventures of shepherds absolutely integrated to their natural surroundings and obsessed with the idea of a life structured by fortunes in love, and, therefore, removed from any religious or eschatological preoccupation, could not merit approbation. Culturally more productive than the outright rejection of pastoral are the attempts to “christianize” it. Frei Bartolomé Ponce, for example, considers the Diana a waste of talent, but, sensitive to its positive reception and the symbolic possibilities of the pastoral world, publishes, inspired by Garcilaso’s versions of Petrarch addressed to the Divine, his own religious version of the Diana (1599). The journey of Lope de Vega is also paradigmatic, moving from the profane Arcadia (1598) to the religiously inspired Pastores de Belén (Shepherds of Bethlehem, 1612). 3.

“no sería mucho que, habiendo sanado mi señor tio de la enfermidad caballaresca, leyendo estos, se le antojase de hacerse pastor y andarse por los bosques y prados cantando y tañendo, y lo que sería peor, hacerse poeta que según dicen es enfermedad incurable y pegadiza” (Cervantes 1998, 84; First part, Chap. 6).

4.

“é curioso e no género de fingidos amores pastoris, dos mais honestos que até agora vi; porque assi trata estas galantarias dos pastores e pastoras, que a ninguém dá matéria de lascivos pensamentos, antes entretém com algũas humanidades poéticas e históricas” (Freire 1996, 123).

Pastoral. The pastoral romance153 This reorientation of the pastoral is not always so explicit. Among the Portuguese works marked by sadness and disenchantment, the symbolic charge attributed to the pastor is more emphasized. Excluding works such as those by Samuel Usque or D. Manuel de Portugal, in which the strategies of the pastoral are merely supports for narratives that do not come under the category of the romance, we should remember here Lusitânia Transformada, which redefines the pastoral song, and poetry in a wider sense, conferring upon it eschatological objectives. In effect, throughout this work, in which one can feel the constant influence of Sannazaro, the pastors sing to profane love, in verses that express suffering and disappointment, whereas the narrative highlights the ties of solidarity that bind the pastors in their search for a refuge away from court society. The end of the work, however, allows for the possibility of hope. It is Christmas Day, and the pastors gather to praise the Child Christ in poetry, forming a group that cannot fail to remind the reader of the shepherds of Bethlehem. In this festive atmosphere, Felicio, the shepherd who comes from the east and probably represents the author, and his companions rediscover their taste for life.

The disintegration of the pastoral universe The world of the romances of the sixteenth century is defined by idealization, even when the author explicitly demands an allegorical reading of the narrative. In fact, when the pastoral lost its symbolic charge and began to be perceived as intellectualized allegory, it also lost its poetic justification. At this time books such as the Desmaios de Maio em sombras do Mondego (May dismays in the Mondego’s shadows, 1635) began to be written, which literary criticism for many years considered pastoral, despite being set in an urban environment, within the confines of a well ordered garden, and having allegorical values different from those of the pastoral. For Garcilaso it was sufficient to note the inverisimilitude of his pastor’s discourse to justify it, and in the pastoral universe of Rodrigues Lobo allegorization can also justify mimetic irrealism. Rodrigues Lobo, in an epoch in which the mimetic becomes a predominant criteria for artistic worth, compares literature and painting: “As the art of painting represents the different colours of a figure, and the form the substance, which is the principal part of the representation, so in my work, I seem not to represent the reality of shepherds lives, I at the same time, try to show, beyond clothing and words, the realities of vice and the peacefulness of virtue.”5 But the power of allegory was not now sufficient to retain the popularity of pastoral among the public (Arredondo 1987). Even within the works writers were aware of the perplexity that the artificial nature of their characters would provoke among readers. Like Lope in his Arcadia, many authors openly declared that their shepherds were disguised court figures. To aggravate this discomfort, the Hispanic tradition of the rustic pastor persisted, and the parallel development of both types of representation accentuated even more the mimetic irrealism of the world of the pastoral romance. The allegorization of this world, as the French pastoral romance shows, did not contribute to a revitalization of the genre (Anacleto 1994). 5.

“E assi como na arte do pintar representam as cores diferentes o natural de uma figura, e a forma dela a substancia e a tenção para que foi figurada, que é a parte principal da obra, assi o que nesta minha não parecer que representa o modo dos pastores com a viveza e termo que convém, atribui ao intento, que é mostrar debaixo de seu burel, e com suas palavras, a condição dos vícios e o sossego das virtudes” (Lobo 1928, xii).

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Luis Gálvez de Montalvo would intratextually raise this question, with the sixth part of his El Pastor de Fíliada, in a passage that would give rise to many diverse readings (AvalleArce 1974, Arredondo 1987). In this passage, the narrator imagines the confusion of a hypothetical reader, or “curioso,” who would reflect on the absence of work or reference to the reality of livestock rearing in the romance, as well as the shepherds’ extraordinary poetic capacities and their exchanging of letters. The narrative voice responds with plausible explanations, declaring the transfiguration of the realities of social life as subservient to aesthetic and literary functions. The text is from the beginning an act of autobiographical reconstitution, and the challenge to the reader is, as is common in bucolic texts, in the decoding of allusions. But that which validates the plot is defined in part seven of the text as “la verdad de mis pastores” (the truth of my shepherds). The truth, however, is that if, for the author, it was evident that the mythic and the social could be combined in the pastoral, other forms of symbolic expression seemed more suited to this task. Ultimately, the disintegration of the pastoral universe, as it was conceived by Montemor, was inevitable from the moment in which platonic realism lost its power to inform the cultural world.

Conclusion To synthesize the enormous flexibility of pastoral works and their protean capacity to include the most varied spheres of the literary, one could say with Curtius that the world of the pastors is a point of intersection for all worlds. This claim is certainly true of the pastoral romance, which for diverse reasons does not confine its meanings to the typical bucolic sphere, removed from historical time and the social and political world. If Montemor succeeded in bringing to the pastoral elements that were initially foreign to it, through his poetic talents and knowledge of myth, Lofrasso, if in not such an accomplished manner, achieves this through the autobiographical nature of his narrative, in the same way that Cervantes proves that any fragment of reality can become an object for literature. But Cervantes also shows the failings of any attempt to reconstruct the world through a perspective that would be coherently unified by the bucolic and the totalizing idealizations that it presupposes. The Portuguese romances, which from the start of the seventeenth century were often published by authors who advertised the chronological priority of their work as compared to those of their rivals, could not remain indifferent to the innovations of Spanish fiction, which allowed them the capacity to carry out similar experiments. Because of this, it is difficult to find traits that differentiate Castilian and Portuguese works. If some Castilian works have more elaborate narrative schemes, or if the elegaic character of the Portuguese authors’ lyrics stand out, subordinating the narrative, it is also easy to find examples from both languages that contradict these observations. It is true that the different political-cultural situations lived by both Portuguese and Castilian authors are manifest, but, in an epoch in which imitation is a poetic norm, their works share a common literary tradition, and the birth of the genre in a text written in Castilian by a Portuguese writer reflects this shared heritage.

Books of chivalry Outline of a genre Isabel Almeida Preliminary topics In a sermon dedicated to Francis Xavier, António Vieira recalls a “pública disputa” (1959, 68; public disputation) that took place in Japan in the sixteenth century, involving the saint and a Buddhist priest: “This giant of letters was called Fucarandono (a name which, for its strident and arrogant resonance, could be found in any book of chivalry).”1 Vieira describes the confrontation as if it were a duel, in which the priest Fucarandono takes to the field as well prepared as David’s Goliath. It is remarkable that in 1694 a respected elderly Jesuit, taking on the challenge of evoking the life of the co-founder of the Company, feels it appropriate to make use of his knowledge of the books of chivalry. One can say that Vieira was adjusting his discourse to the projected audience of his sermon (the Portuguese army), and this argument is valid to some extent. But it is also remarkable that Vieira, in describing this episode, moves away from his main source of information, the Historia da Vida do P. Francisco Xavier (Francisco Xavier’s life, 1600) of João de Lucena, and shows his acquaintance with such a genre as the chivalric romance, speaking of the saint as if he were a new Amadis able to win a glorious victory for Christianity. This passage, produced in a time when the books of chivalry were a genre declining in popularity, and written by a cleric (a condition which with respect to fiction would imply, in principle, an attitude of at best circumspect reserve), indicates the wide distribution of these books, and invites us to reflect on the fascination they provoked, and the changes they underwent in time. This is, in nuce, the aim of this essay, in which I will attempt to describe the dissemination of the genre, its impact, its intrinsic characteristics, and its historical context. It is worthwhile, at this point, to sound a warning note in order to frame what follows. For a long time, until the last decades of the twentieth century, the books of chivalry were underappreciated or forgotten, and only recently have they been studied from a new perspective. The genre is a rich source for a history of the book and of reading, as it is a complex phenomenon, manifest in an abundant corpus of prints and manuscripts, with their various modes of circulation and production. Literary history, too, with the contribution of philological scholarship and bibliographical research, has helped to save the chivalric romances from the flames to which they are consigned in the Quixote. This is important, as the genre is a significant element in any larger perspective that would attempt to connect works, authors, genres, languages, and processes of creation and reception. These new approaches allow us to understand the dynamic process in which the chivalric romances play an active part. The genre had an uncertain status: books of chivalry are permeable, and act upon or react to other paradigms and texts.

1.

“Chamava-se este gigante das letras Fucarandono (nome que, pelo estrondoso e arrogante, em qualquer livro de cavalarias pudera fazer bem a figura)” (Vieira 1959, 68). doi 10.1075/chlel.29.15alm © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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This is a warning, then, about the field of research: it is rich and complex, and requires meticulous and rigorous consideration. Though based on the poetics of imitation that dominated the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and nearly always forming elements of larger cycles (which encouraged obvious intertextual affinities), the books of chivalry are far from their characterization by the Canon of Toledo in the Quixote: “They are all essentially the same and one is no different from another” (Cervantes 2003, 411).2 We should not forget that though the Canon claims to have read every exemplar of the genre, he also admits that he has never read one from start to finish. His position is subtly undermined throughout Cervantes’s meandering narrative. It is certainly true that the genre has depth and importance, and we need to analyze each text carefully, in a dialectical movement, in order to cast an extensive gaze over the genre, raising questions and mapping chronological parameters and lineages on a wide scale. With their composite nature and influential trajectory, the chivalric romances more than deserve this attention.

Roots and flowering of the genre When we speak of chronicles, histories (historias), or books of chivalry (exchangeable designations during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries), we are speaking of a flexible genre, which finds its roots in various important genres of the middle ages: the Arthurian legends, propagated through the Historia Regum Brittaniae (The history of the kings of Britain, c. 1136) of Geoffrey de Monmouth, and in the vernacular versions of these carried out by Robert Wace in his Geste des Bretons (Deeds of Britons, c. 1155); the retaking of this Breton material and its interpenetration with Celtic tradition in the lais or romans of Chretien de Troyes, an author who was decisive in the melding of the two major ideological themes — chivalry and love; the stories of the Trojan war, such as those composed by Benoît de Saint-Maure, in his Roman de Troie (c. 1150–60); the songs of Carolingian epic; and the narrative cycles in prose, centered on the search for the Holy Grail, which came into being in the first half of the thirteenth century. In different ways, often as a function of contingent opportunities for cultural contact, the Iberian Peninsula received these influences, and, subjecting them to transformation (whether through prosification or translation), made them not only reading material, but also a crucial stimulus for new experiences. It is this bridge that is necessary to explore. Can we confirm the existence of versions of the Amadís de Gaula (Amadis of Gaul) from the fourteenth century, and were these written in Portuguese or not? Vexata quaestio. The Libro del caballero Cifar (Book of the knight Cifar) can be dated to c. 1300; Tirant lo Blanch was written in the mid-fifteenth century and first published in 1490, in Valencia. We know hardly anything about the primitive Amadises; the status of the Cifar as a book of chivalry is doubtful given the genre’s development in the sixteenth century. And Tirant, in the lineage of the poem Guy de Warwyck and echoing the doctrine of Ramon Llull in his Llibre de l’orde de cavalleria (The book of the order of chivalry, c. 1274–76), but also with Latin influences and impregnated with a singular exuberance and realism (linking it to romans such as Thebes or the Italian novel?), is not easily catalogued. Overall, despite the differences that separate 2.

“cuál más, cuál menos, todos ellos son una mesma cosa, y no tiene más éste que aquél, ni estotro que el otro” (Cervantes 1958, 25; Part 1, Chap. 47).

Books of chivalry157 them, these texts constitute a testament to the abiding place of prose narratives of chivalric feats in the Iberian Peninsula — a presence that is also noticeable in hybrids of chronicles and fiction such as the Gran Conquista de Ultramar (Great conquest of Outremer, c. 1300), where the deeds of a mythical ancestor, the Swan Knight, are praised. The polymorphism of the books of chivalry is evidence of the many models, both classical and modern, which nourished them. Amadís, in the version of Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo, edited for the first time in 1496 (the oldest edition available today is that printed by Jorge Coci, in Zaragoza, in 1508), was to become a foundational text for the flowering of the genre in the sixteenth century. What was it about the Amadís of Montalvo that made it a seminal text for so many others? It is certain that the concordance of the development of printing and the enthusiasm for books of chivalry was important; these books acquired more and more renown, and the printing presses were quick to understand a promising business, with a guaranteed and growing public. In this game of supply and demand — or in this contruction of an editorial genre, as Víctor Infantes (1992) and José Manuel Lucía Megías (2000) prefer to designate the process — Tirant (translated to Castilian in Valladolid in 1511) and Cifar (Seville, 1512), along with texts of medieval admixture, such as the Libro de Tristán de Leonís (Book of Tristán of Leonís; Valladolid, 1501), or La demanda del sancto Grial (The demand of the holy grail; Toledo, 1515), were taken along with this typographical wave, becoming members of a successful family of fiction. Given this situation of high speed mass printing, the books of chivalry were to become, in Spain and in Portugal, what D. W. Cruickshank (1978) calls a “best-seller,” and this is an apt term to describe a genre that inspired short narratives, plays, and romances, and that triumphed for decades in the printing world. These works circulated within the Iberian space, reflecting and feeding a cultural commonality expressed in shared tastes and inventive crossovers. As powerful as Castilian was as a linguistic vehicle for the transmission of the genre, its history should not be limited to works in that language. The number of Portuguese texts, though modest, shows that the genre crossed the political and linguistic divide (a clear example is the Cronica do emperador Clarimundo [Chronicle of the emperor Clarimundo, 1522], which skillfully recreates the narratives of Rodríguez de Montalvo in the service of the Portuguese monarchy) and were even used with patriotic intent, as is the case in the sequels to the Palmeirim de Inglaterra (Palmeirim of England), written in the context of the Dual Monarchy (1580–1640). It is important to recall the two-way relationship between Portugal and Spain. A translation of the Palmeirim de Inglaterra of Francisco de Morais was published in Toledo (1547–48). Between 1518 (or 1524? Eisenberg & Marín Pina 2000, 295) and 1528, the Portuguese author Jeronimo Lopes produced the cycle of Clarián de Landanís (Floramante de Colonia, Caballero de la Triste Figura, Lidamán de Ganail) in Castilian, and these were published in Spain, a mark of the bilingualism that was typical of Portuguese culture in the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries. If the printing and reprinting of Castilian texts in Portugal (in Évora, Cristóvão de Burgos printed a clandestine edition of the Palmeirim de Oliva with a print run of one thousand, destined mainly for Spain but with one hundred allocated to Portugal; see Leal 1962) reflects the strength of Castilian writing, that does not negate the tradition of Portuguese books of chivalry. We have solid indicators of the success of the genre, both in the Iberian Peninsula and in other parts of Europe. Books of chivalry provoked and sustained lively printing industries (between editions and reeditions there are more than two hundred titles). There is evidence of the competitive publication of new titles in urban nuclei from Seville to Valladolid, Medina del

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Campo to Toledo, and Lisbon to Barcelona. There was also piracy and international commerce treaties, with printers and booksellers forming partnerships in the distribution of stock. All these conditions raise sociological questions: Who read, and how? Were books read individually and silently, or collectively and aloud? Who could gain access to these works? Were they the preserve of an aristocratic elite, or could less privileged groups also enjoy them? How were these works distributed? To what level were prices reduced in the second-hand market? Who might benefit from the tradition of exchange and renting of books? To what extent does temporal distance, a distance that Roger Chartier (1987) underlined, affect our comprehension of the cultural reality of which the books of chivalry form a part? Were the books of chivalry elite or popular literature? Is it licit to define diachronical processes of formation and differentiation of literary audiences? There are many questions, and many vacillating or incomplete answers. Given the complexity of the data, any conclusive remarks are baseless. We can say, however, if with a certain prudence, that the books of chivalry were initially restricted to limited circles, specifically the court. It is not surprising that in the court of the young D. João III, c. 1526, Gil Vicente would adapt adventures from the Primaleón for his auto Don Duardos (I. Almeida 1996; Castro 2003), or that he would dramatize, for the same king, passages from the Amadís (Amado 1992; Castro 2003). Nor is it surprising that, in the Spain of Philip II, Elisabeth of Valois encouraged court festivities of chivalric inspiration (Viterbo 1903; Ferrer Valls 1993). There is copious evidence for the palace predilection for these narratives, either in anecdotes that speak of their influence or in individual testimonies of the delight their reading provided. Apart from this, the dedicatory prefaces (in Portugal, before the loss of independence, in 1580, they pay tribute to kings, princes, and princesses) are significant, and also eloquent are texts such as the Sergas de Esplandián (The adventures of Esplandián) or the Cronica do emperador Clarimundo that include teachings relative to the duties of a king, and that project an encomiastic image of the real sovereigns and the history that they supposedly embody. The court attempted to identify with the ethical and aesthetical patterns of chivalric fiction, finding in them a rich source of symbolic images. Fiction and reality became mixed, with fictional masks applying to historical figures and situations. On a festive level, the transpositions of models from fiction, and the panegyric importance with which they were attributed, stand out. Garcia de Resende, in the Crónica de D. João II, fulsomely compared the magnificence of the matrimonial celebrations of D. Afonso and D. Isabel to fictional opulence: “there were such things to write about that it appeared as a scene from Amadis, or Esplandião” (Resende 1991, 176). In the organization of the tournament of Xabregas (Lisbon, 1550), in honor of the Prince João and the youthful nobility that developed around him, the narratives of chivalry again assumed a central role (Subirats 1986; Miguel 1998), in the same way in which in Binche, in Flanders, an homage to the Emperor and the Prince Philip included a celebration based on the books of Amadis (Devoto 1974, 225). The celebrations to commemorate the birth of the son of Charles V likewise included “tournaments and adventures in the manner of Amadis, and it was entertaining to see events recounted in the book happen in real life” (Chevalier 1976, 80). Examples such as these are numerous. But apart from the dramatic games that were to the taste of the court, fictional motifs also carried over to more solemn contexts, whether with magistrates or prosperous bourgeois. In a message to João III, c. 1521, the deflating pathos of the homens bons of Lisbon is made clear in the context of chivalric literature: “enlightened and prudent Lord, as famous knight of adventure, free the damsel and her people from their dismal future” (Andrada 1976, 42).

Books of chivalry159 The books of chivalry were, then, entertainment for an educated elite. However, as the festivals that represented scenes of chivalry took place in open spaces they allowed for a public “reading” of fictional material (López Estrada 1982, 297). An auto such as Don Duardos, for example, though initially addressed to a court audience, was quickly disseminated, in cheap and popular form, throughout Spain and Portugal. Indeed, from the middle of the sixteenth century there is evidence for an increase in democratic access to books of chivalry. This is evident in the Iberian Peninsula, as can be inferred from the investigations of Philippe Berger (1987) and Sara Nalle (1989); in the West Indies (despite adverse legislation), as Irving A. Leonard (1992) demonstrates; and in the East, as can be gleaned from testimonies and the clues left in various texts. Books of chivalry were also travel companions, to judge from the correspondence of missionaries, who noted the presence on ships of a “huge number of chivalric and untruthful books, which were a demonic temptation” (Wicki 1960, 771–72). These are more than enough reasons to credit the belief that though the books of chivalry remained popular among the palaces of the aristocracy, by the mid-sixteenth century they had attained a numerous and diversified public. This change does not only affect the history of their reception. From this heterogeneous mass of new readers, new authors appeared. Each one of these brought with them their own literary perspective, and helped in the miscegenation of the genre that contributed to its regeneration. The perpetuation of a narrative grammar and heroic ideals would, from the middle of the sixteenth century, run alongside the introduction of new characters, spaces, and temporal schemes, and the inclusion of alternative rhythms and narrative threads that genres such as the picaresque and the pastoral inspired. The popularity of the books of chivalry ends roughly around 1605, the year of the publication of the Quixote. But despite the explicitly stated aim of that book to “undermine the authority and wide acceptance that books of chivalry have” (Cervantes 2003, 8), or of opinions such as those of the censor José de Valdivielso, who in approving the second part of the novel writes “with diligence it has cleansed this contagious sickness [the books of chivalry] from these kingdoms” (1958, 528), it cannot be said that Cervantes definitively killed off an appreciation for Amadises and Palmeirins.3 Though Policisne de Boecia (Policisne of Boetia, 1602) was the last new title to emerge that followed genre expectations in Spain, coinciding temporally with the publication of the Quinta e sexta parte de Palmeirim de Inglaterra (Fifth and sixth part of Palmeirim of England) in Portugal in the same year, sporadic re-editions of the books of chivalry were made in later years. The festivals of 1605 in which Valladolid celebrated the birth of the future Philip IV of Spain, saw an entremés (short comedy) described by Tomé Pinheiro de Veiga (1911) that included the characters of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. His Fastiginia suggests, however, that the Quixote was understood as an entertaining, parodic, and carnivalesque book of chivalry (Vargas Diaz-Toledo 2007). Indeed, in all the work of Pinheiro de Veiga, the trace of Palmeirin and Amadís shines through, in allusive passages that imply the complicity of the reader and demonstrate the persistence of the genre. We should not forget that some years earlier (1603), the wedding that united the two families of the Condestaveis — that of D. Ana Velasco and D. Teodosio II of Braganza — was commemorated with a representation of the heroic adventures of famous knights (Sousa 1949, 6, 218–47).

3.

“derribar la máquina mal fundada destos caballerescos libros” (Cervantes 1958, 25; Prologue).

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The progressive decrease in demand for books of chivalry can be attributed to various factors, but it is clear that this slow but non-linear process was also affected by the ideological and poetic changes that are represented and thematized in the Quixote. But the reduction of print numbers is not a completely reliable index, as Lucía Megías warns (1997, ix–xiii): the romances of chivalry continued to be read and were to have an influence on other genres and texts. Unpublished narratives were preserved in new copies, manuscript copies accompanied the circulation of printed texts, and new titles were prepared, some in aristocratic circles, attesting to the enduring attraction the nobility felt for the genre (Vargas Díaz-Toledo 2007). Could a genre such as this die so abruptly? The wide cultural reach of the books of chivalry can be detected in the positive ways they were assimilated and projected. But it is also important to analyze negative reactions to the genre, and the complex arguments it provoked, points at which we can glimpse, apart from the impact of its diffusion, the poetic context in which it exists.

Praise and condemnation The condemnation of fiction always increased in moments of literary expansion, with fears that unlimited access to fabulous worlds would have negative ethical and moral effects. This distrust has many sources, from Plato’s suspicion of the poets, to Saint Paul’s biblical warnings as to the dangerous effects of gentile fables. Dante, with his ambition to construct a sacred poem, also fits into this tradition, and in a celebrated passage of the Comedia (Inferno V), allows Francesca da Rimini to discourse on the dangers of literature: One day for our delight we read of Lancelot, how him love thrall’d. Alone we were, and no suspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading our eyes were drawn together and the hue fled from our alter’d cheek. But at one point alone we fell. When of that smile we read, the wished smile, rapturously kiss’d by one so deep in love, then he, who ne’er from me shall separate, at once my lips all trembling kiss’d. The book and writer both were love’s purveyors. In its leaves that day we read no more. (Dante Alighieri 2009, 16)4

In the description of the adulterous love of Francesca and Paolo, the book of Arthurian romance is a “Galeotto” (go-between), that is, an amorous medium as efficient as it is insinuating. The absolute parallelism of their actions (the pair of lovers from Arthurian legend and the pair of lovers who imitate them) emphasizes the capacity of literature to lead to sinful behavior. Boccaccio opposes this judgement in the Decameron, in which he separates the liberty of the storyteller and the responsibility of the reader, who would ideally not be susceptible to the possibly adverse effects of fiction. These two are emblematic positions, which will later, in the age of Gutenberg, come to have major importance. 4.

“Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto / di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse: / soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto. / Per più fiate li occhi ci sospinse/quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso; / ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse. / Quando leggemmo il disiato riso / esser baciato da cotanto amante, / questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, / la bocca mi baciò tutto tremante. / Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse: / quel giorno piú non vi leggemmo avante” (Dante Alighieri 1985, 64–65).

Books of chivalry161 Profane genres, such as love poetry and pastoral literature were, in the sixteenth century, to become the main targets of censure and disapproval. Books of chivalry, however, were to become the target of an exceptionally hostile criticism. As Marcel Bataillon pointed out (1937, 664), these attacks became a staple part of prologues, dedications, and introductions to works that sought a morally unimpeachable status. With great vehemence in Spain, and to a lesser degree in Portugal, a polyphonic chorus of scandal, or what could be termed an offensive on various fronts, arose, which included historians (looking to secure the status of their chronicles as opposed to the fabulous tales of romance), humanists (warring against a genre without classical purity), and moralists and religious, who vowed to destroy the “sermons of Satan,” or “lures of the devil,” and desired punishment or sanction for those who would pollute the “Christian republic” (Glaser 1966, Riquer 1973, Ife 1991, Sarmati 1996, I. Almeida 1998). A petition was forwarded to the Cortes of Valladolid in 1555 that lamented the damage caused by such libros de vanidades (books of vanities), and the blind obedience they induced to follow pernicious models in the sphere of love and arms. The petition concludes: “And so as to cure these problems, we beg that none of these books nor others like them be read or printed, and that those that are in existence are collected and burnt” (quoted in Tubino 1862, 77–78). This plea was never granted, but echoes of it are still visible in 1625, in a document released by the Junta of the reformation (Blasco 2005, 41–42). The persistence of such requests ultimately reflects their failure. To be fair we should also remember that not all religious and moral commentators, nor all humanists and historians, were against books of chivalry; in fact, many tolerated or even enjoyed them. This relative complacency was not provoked only by texts such as Las Sergas de Esplandián or Florisel, which embraced causes such as the crusades that were susceptible to favorable reactions among church and clergy (Vargas Díaz-Toledo 2007). In general, the Inquisition, whether in Spain or in Portugal, did not forbid the books of chivalry, and on occasion even praised them. Commenting on the Historia Famosa del Principe don Policisne de Boecia (History of the famous Prince don Policisne of Boeotia), Diego Sánchez de la Camara states in the “Aprovacion” (Approval): “In this work I find nothing against the faith, but instead praiseworthy acts of virtue, which could serve as exemplary for the nobility of Spain, that they might imitate them and commit noble acts in the service of their law and of their King. For these reasons I believe that it would benefit the Republic to licence their printing” (Silva y de Toledo 1602, n. fol.). In the sixteenth century, however, the defenders of fiction were more and more often their creators, or those who gained from fictional works, and, inverting the arguments of critics, inserted paratexts in their books asserting the merits of fiction, assertions which they would corroborate in the interior of their narratives. In fact, praise and condemnation often referred to a single system of values, as for much of the sixteenth century Horace’s Epistula ad Pisones (Letters to the Pisones) was the text by which the validity of fiction was determined. The critics of chivalric fiction argued that it did not achieve the Horacian ideal of combining instruction and pleasure (“aut prodesse aut delectare”); whilst its defenders replied that it embodied precisely these aims. A good example of this style of poetic justification is the way in which in his Memorial das Proezas da Segunda Távola Redonda (Memorial of the deeds of the second round table, 1567), Jorge Ferreira de Vasconcelos used classical doctrine in his own favor:

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I, following the custom of the Persians, who did not appear before royalty without gifts […] thought heroic material more suited to royal tastes, because these works deal with the most famous types, those who Homer and Virgil painted in their poems, and who we moderns, with no less artifice, if not as much style, imitate, in the stories of King Arthur, Amadis of Gaul, and many others, who are often, and without cause, judged as vain and without merit, which is a vulgar and misconceived opinion, especially if we believe Horace, who recommended mixing the instructive with the sweet. It is clear, then, the amount of melody that in such heroic tales is treated the good of peace, the necessity of war, the virtue of some, the maliciousness of others. These tales show the range of human inclinations, our virtues and our defects, and the unpredictability of life’s course. And this is what is said of the saints and doctors of the church, not that we simply adapt our tales to their sacred doctrines, but that we make these supposedly vain fictions worthy of their tears.5

On the one hand, the books of chivalry were condemned, branded morally pernicious and poetically unsophisticated; on the other, there was an attempt to align the texts to classical roots and many authors argued for the usefulness of fiction. An escape from this division was proportioned by the rediscovery, in the middle of the sixteenth century, of Aristotle’s Poetics. Literary theory from this point on could reconsider the genre from a different perspective.

Theorization The theorization of literature in the Iberian Peninsula (rare in Portugal but more plentiful in Spain [Kohut 1973, Castro 1985]) does not give prominence to the books of chivalry. But this silence is eloquent: if poetics ignores the genre, or if, in mentioning it they reject it as bastard, it is because they are following classical criteria to which the books of chivalry do not conform. Significantly, Alonso López Pinciano in his Philosophía antigua Poética (Ancient philosophical poetics, 1596) refers to the chivalric romances only to emphasize their spurious character. This negative treatment is even more relevant if we take into account that Pinciano had the conceptual apparatus, if he had so desired, to give the genre a standing among more prestigious works, as had happened in Italy with the rehabilitation of the romanzo in the treatises of Giovanbattista Pigna and Giovanbattista Giraldi Cinzio. What prevented him from moving in this direction? Negative prejudices about fabulous tales, absent from the classical tradition (and, obviously, from Aristotle’s Poetics). Pinciano treats the books of chivalry as an anti-model, examples of the 5.

“Eu, seguindo o costume dos Persas, que não se apresentavam ante a Majestade Real sem oferenda […], achei a matéria heróica mais apropriada a todo real engenho, por nela se tratar qual deve ser o varão por fama conhecido sobre as estrelas, segundo Homero e Vergílio altamente o pintaram em seus Poemas, aos quais nossos modernos imitaram com não menos artifício, quando não estilo, nas histórias del-Rei Artur, de Amadis de Gaula e muitas outras semelhantes, as quais, muito sem causa, são julgadas por vãs e sem fruto (opinião vulgar e levemente concebida); cá se cremos a Horácio, aquele tomou a palha que misturou o proveitoso com o doce. / Claro está, pois, com quanta melodia nas tais heróicas escrituras se trata o bom da paz, o necessário da guerra, a virtude de uns, a malícia de outros; finalmente se mostra a olho a seara das inclinações humanas, seus primores, seus defeitos e a pintura desta vida, no curso tão diferente quanto no remate conforme. E assim se diz de santos e graves Doutores, colunas da militante Igreja, que não somente as leram e se ajustaram de suas flores enxeridas em sua sagrada doutrina, mas fizeram dignos de suas lágrimas os tais fingimentos dado que vãos” (Vasconcelos 1998, 6).

Books of chivalry163 dangers poetry should avoid (I. Almeida 1998, 83–97), and he opposes them to the Byzantine novel, specifically Heliodorus’s Aethiopica, which with its Hellenic roots was esteemed by humanists (Fumaroli 1985). Curiously, it is in the seventeenth century that, in Portugal, texts are written in which the books of chivalry are praised. In around 1630, Manuel Pires de Almeida wrote a short text entitled “Do romanço e dos livros de batalha e dos livros de cavalarias” (On the romance and the books of battle and chivalry). Years before, in 1619, Francisco Rodriguez Lobo had dedicated the first dialogue of his Corte na aldeia (Village court) to a discussion of books, in which the books of chivalry were particularly praised. None of these texts, however, had an instructive function. They were, rather, attempts to tease out aspects of poetics, or, more accurately, to discuss questions that the Poetics had brought to the forefront. It is symptomatic that in both texts the Quixote should leave its mark. Paradoxically, Rodrigues Lobo relies on Aristotelian concepts in order to legitimate a genre that was never considered by the Stagirite: “And if a man is to read a story about that which is not, or that which emerged so boiled and beaten from the author’s forge that like metal it changes its colour and nature, he is better with books of chivalry and made-up stories, which, if not truthful, at least don’t pretend to be so, and are so well made that they attract the eyes and desires of those who read them” (1991, 61). In the dialogue, the speeches in favor of the books of chivalry are made by older characters, many of whom have a courtly past. The dialogue undeniably praises the histórias fingidas (false histories) of the books of chivalry, but it is also clear that Rodrigues Lobo discusses them in the context of a more global exploration of the notions of truth and verisimilitude, and above all as a pretext for a discussion of a central topic of the age: the duties and codes of the historiographer. In other words, a discussion of the books of chivalry served as a way to provoke controversy and to give central importance to fields, such as historiography, which the Poetics had discussed. For Pires de Almeida too, the books of chivalry were not just important in and of themselves, he thought of them in terms of the Italian romanzo, and it was the romanzo — maxime in the work of Ariosto — upon which he concentrated, “the best name for it being a poem, since it doesn’t follow the doctrine of Aristotles” (MS. Casa Cadaval, ANTT, 1, fol. 525v). This attitude, and the tendency to compile evidence from various sources, is understandable in the context of Almeida’s defence of what he considered to be the hybrid nature of Camões’s Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads). In his discourse, which is striking in its use of Italian literary theory (he cites, among others, Giovannbattista Pigna, author of I Romanzi [The romances] and the Quixote of Cervantes), he retains, along with Rodrigues Lobo, the Canon of Toledo’s respect for the potential of chivalric books (1958, 483), and a certain liberty with respect to the authority of Aristotle shines through. If the books of chivalry find a place in the poetic system of Pires de Almeida, it is because it is a modern system, which looks for authorization not just from classical models. What can we conclude from these examples? We can see at least that European poetics inclined more towards an acceptance of histórias fingidas, and that in mannerist and baroque systems the structural traces of the narratives of chivalry became respectable, whereas in the period of the genre’s flourishing, in the sixteenth century, the “escritura desatada destos libros” (Cervantes 1958, 483; these books’ uncontrolled style) guaranteed their marginal status within a literary theory defined by classical ideals. It is a notable paradox that, in practice, the essential strangeness of the chivalric books was the key to their success.

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164 Pieces in a game

Roman Ramírez was accused of witchcraft in 1595. He was a moor whose prodigious powers of recall allowed him to make a living through the public recitation of books of chivalry. During his inquisition he explained the secret of his talent: I memorized the number of books and chapters of Don Cristalian’s book and the gist of the adventures recounted within them, as well as the names of the cities, kingdoms, knights, and princesses, and learned all of these off by heart. Afterwards, when I recited them, I changed everything around as much as I liked, but always making sure to conclude with the main substance of the narrative, so that for all those who listened it seemed as if I hadn’t altered a word of the texts. But in truth, if anyone listening had the original text in front of them, they could see that although I recounted the gist of the stories, and retained the names of the places and characters, I left out many passages, and added others that were never there in the first place. (quoted in Harvey 1974, 283)

We should note here the difference between the “substance” of the narratives and the razones or specific words used. These last could vary, allowing for pastiches and improvisations, but the former was maintained. Román Ramírez’s deposition shows a detailed conscience of the ways in which a certain grammatic narrative oriented the books of chivalry. In fact, these narratives were based on certain constant elements and stable coordinates. They are defined by a vague geography and a remote and undetermined past, and take place within a world populated by kings, knights, damsels, monsters, and wisemen who meet each other both in war and in peace, in feasting or in conflict. From their adventures we gather an idea of life as constant movement, determined by divine law and fortune and incarnated in characters that are as canonic as they are artificial. We could do well here to observe how one of the figures in the first dialogue of Corte na aldeia teases another by saying that he appears almost a character from a chivalric book: “If you had black magic, rocky castles, enamored knights, proud giants, discreet pages, and wandering damsels as you have sonorous words, tight verses, gallantries, and sentences that would take your breath away, you could create a song to Amadis, Palmeirim, Clarimundo that would surpass the best of those who have written on this matter.”6 The inventio, then, of chivalric books took their place among a number of types, and were recognized as such. This meant that skill in manipulating this common material was understood and appreciated. Also, these narratives were subject to a dualist perspective, in which contrasts were constructed and then resolved, often leading to a victory of good over evil. The pressure of these parameters did not impoverish fabulous narrative; although the characterization of figures within the fictional narrative was ruled by the obvious rhetoric of antithesis, there was room for the convergence of diverse and fertile traditions. In these texts the king is placed in opposition to the tyrant, and this distinction has its roots in the codification of sovereignty that had been developed since the Middle Ages. That is to say, 6.

“Se tivera encantamentos escuros, castelos rocheiros, cavaleiros namorados, gigantes soberbos, escudeiros discretos e donzelas vagabundas, como tem palavras sonoras, razões concertadas, trocados galantes e períodos que levam todo o fôlego, pudera pôr a um canto o Amadis, Palmeirim, Clarimundo e ainda o mais pintado de todos os que nesta matéria se escreveram” (Lobo 1991, 57–59).

Books of chivalry165 the king embodies cardinal virtues, above all the capacity to assure justice, to prove his mercy, and to be a paternal figure that symbolizes the unity of a diverse polity. The narrative twists highlight these points, and praise a type of conduct that would be seen as exemplary, or reprove behavior that would not accord with the ideal. With rare exception, the chivalric books do not engage with hermeneutic subtleties. This is a universe that excludes or diminishes figures not of noble extraction, and the knights are deemed superior due to the fact that they are governed by a code of ethics. Good knights are distinguished from bad in terms of their allegiance to this code. The order of this world depends, on a micro level, on the wandering knight, and on a macro level, on the struggle between Christianity and Islam. The Paladin knights are crucial figures here, and if any sympathy with Islamic culture is apparent in the narratives, as in Memorial das Proezas da Segunda Távola Redonda, it is exceptional. The books of chivalry exalt the Christian warrior, and it is the danger that he poses to Christianity that determines the monstrosity of the villain. Giants, tremendous beasts, and teratologic portents symbolize feritas, as opposed to the humanitas of the wandering knight. A relevant detail: the names of the monsters manifest, as if by cratylism, their bizarre natures. As subjects of hyperbolic representation (all the more terrifying in their contrast to the beauty and courtly values that the books of chivalry also represent), these monsters are the protagonists in episodes of excessive fantasy — incredible combat, awful threats, extreme maliciousness — and make up an imaginary world that could be described as determined by a poetics of horror. Mutatis mutandis, whether they are associated with the Muslim or Christian traditions, the wisemen or magicians of the stories represent the possibility of letters and books to regenerate or to destroy. If, in some narratives such as Sergas de Esplandián and the Cronica do emperador Clarimundo, characters such as Urganda and Fanimor are given a prophetic aura, and an attempt is made to link fictional events to history, and to exalt royalty and to affirm national consciousness, in general, another path is taken. The character of the magician lends itself to fabulous narratives, whether because they can function as a deus ex machina, or because they can create marvelous works. In other words, the magician, whether good or bad, can bring elements of the marvelous to the narratives, and represent the possibility of channelling enargeia. Female characters often give the clearest example of the antithetical structures of the narratives. In the context of a general misogyny, they are often figured as unpredictable and irrational. Granted immense power over their docile suitors, they are also defenseless, and can easily succumb to desire, a constant danger. From the mid-sixteenth century, their depiction entails even more contradictions. The figure of the lady is increasingly distant, almost untouchable in a court society ruled by strict etiquette and protocol, but at the same time depictions of violence and torture in the intrigues of unlikely adventures proliferate. Also, in direct opposition to the figuration of feminine vunerability emerges the virgo bellatrix. As a synocdeche, this panoply of creative hypotheses could well illustrate the nature of the chivalric romances: a stupendous theatre of the imagination.

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166 The art of narration

The passage in the Quixote in which the Canon of Toledo describes the romances is well known: “the free writing style of these books allows the author to show his skills as an epic, lyric, and comic writer, with all the characteristics contained in the sweet and pleasing sciences of poetry and rhetoric; for the epic can be written in prose as well as in verse” (Cervantes 2003, 414).7 This idea of multiplicity would seduce theorists at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Before Cervantes’s lucid meditations, however, the liberty to absorb and transform the doctrines and paradigms in vogue (from poetic compositions to discursive constructions such as the sentence, the epistle, the dialogue, the novel; from a polished court language to the pathological deliriums of amor hereos; from platonizing incursions to the celebration or parody of desire; from visual description to persuasive rhetoric) would have been a tempting path for whoever chose to write a book of chivalry. Without rigorous limits or rigid rules to constrain them, the narratives, sensitive to the literary movements of the time, held the possibility for poetic experiment, allowing for the appropriation and reinvention of elements from other genres. The chivalric books are based on fertile techniques that derive from fundamental genres. From the Arthurian tradition they receive the model of multiple and chronologically comparable interlacing narrative threads, a technique that privileges an ordo artificialis. This was to be a central element in the art of chivalric narrative, and a potential generator of genuinely endless stories. This is a technique that is as simple as it is useful: the progression of the diegesis is guaranteed by a secure narrative voice that comments on situations and the development of the narrative, and, in the case of the Portuguese texts, provides moralizing conclusions to key chapters, whether through sententious conclusions or through lengthy judgements of what has occurred in the main narratives. The comparison of the two final books of chivalry — Clarisol de Bretanha (Clarisol of Britain) and Policisne de Boecia — yields some interesting results, yet again proving that the history of the genre is by no means linear. While the narrative of Juan de Silva relies on the trusted technique of interlacing narrative, the text of Baltasar Lobato reveals the influence of Ariosto, who, along with the Byzantine novel, marks the Portuguese tradition from Memorial das Proezas da Segunda Tavola Redonda on, as is the case in Spain with the sequels to Espejo de príncipes y caballeros (Mirror of princes and knights). Ariosto did not hide his diegetic game: the crossing of plot threads had the aim of generating diversity and avoiding boredom. Above all, it was by no means accidental. The suspension of action in key moments emphasized the imminence of danger and conflict, and provoked the curiosity of the reader, urging him to read on to discover the resolution of the tale. In the Orlando Furioso (as well as in the Byzantine narratives), the art of recounting and listening to a tale is thematized. In fact, by the mid-sixteenth century a narrative reflexivity is common in the chivalric books, along with a multiplication of narrative levels: almost autonomous stories, often of a tragic nature, introduce diverse voices, and, with these, sensitive themes, expressed with intense subjectivity, such as despair, disillusionment with the world, and the temptation of suicide. 7.

“la escritura desatada destos libros da lugar a que el autor pueda mostrarse épico, lírico, trágico, cómico, con todas aquellas partes que encierran en sí las dulcísimas y agradables ciencias de la poesía y de la oratoria; que la épica también puede escribirse en prosa como en verso” (Cervantes 1958, 483; Part 1, Chap. 47).

Books of chivalry167 From the comparison with the Ariostian model one contrast stands out: the ambiguity that the Italian poet grants the word and concept of “truth” through the multiperspectivism of his novels does not have a parallel in the chivalric books, at least in the Portuguese tradition. The vision of the world communicated in these texts is not ironic, as opposed to that of the romanzo, in which almost every element of the narrative can be placed in doubt. Though hints of crisis can be traced (often in parodic passages or in scherzi), corrosive distance is avoided. As if guarding a mythic reserve of confidence, the Amadises and Palmeirins proclaim truth as an intrinsic law of the world of wandering knights.

A model of a hero We will recall the vehemence with which historiography of this period attacked the fictions of chivalry. On the Portuguese side, João de Barros is an exception to this attempt to clearly demarcate the boundary between the work of the chroniclers and the work of authors of fiction. The confusion between true and false stories (historia verdadeira and história fingida) was a danger not only because fiction used procedures that seemed to present their truthfulness (e.g., with the preambulatory topos that presented the tales as a found ancient chronicle), but also because historiography of the time tended towards hyperbole and the attribution of ideal modes of heroic behavior to historical figures. The books of chivalry exalted a pattern of behavior of two extremes: a dedication to warfare and a dedication to love. The heroes of the tales could have varied traits, but, ultimately, the good Christian Paladin, untiring warrior, loyal lover, famous for his incredible feats, is invariably crowned with honor and glory at the end of the story. A paradigm that avoids the realities of time and history? True, in part. Numerous texts, both historiographical and poetic, showed a clear concern for the fate of an aristocratic class that was becoming more sedentary and less given to adventure. The books of chivalry were, in comparison, bastions in defence of an ideal that by the middle of the sixteenth century was less and less of a reality. The narratives defended an ideal of noble self-sacrifice, and in an age in which notions of nobility were hotly debated, argued in favor of an alliance of blue blood with individual prowess: the prestige of lineage was to be allied with individual talent. Though the promotion of this ethos was tenacious, the figure of the knight was never completely fixed. On the contrary, the knight in chivalric books changed over the years, gaining new traits in consonance with the preoccupations of the age. It is not fortuitous that to the figure of the Corsair is opposed that of the Paladin in the mid-sixteenth century. A vestige of the Byzantine novels? Probably. But also the result of contemporary fears provoked by the historical realities facing Portuguese and Spanish writers and society. Similarly, there is nothing accidental in the recurrent characterization of the knight as an evangelist of Christian doctrine. In fact, in the post-Tridentine Peninsula this new element of the fabulous stories could serve in their legitimization. It is in this context that we can understand the preacher knight as parallel to the characters of saintly life, the hermits devoted to extreme abstinence, and the fading in importance of the traditionally inconstant loves of the Paladin, which since Amadís was typically incarnated in the brother of the primus inter pares. A notable example of this transformation is the metamorphosis in the edition of Palmeirim de Inglaterra

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in 1592. By order of the Inquisition, or whoever was responsible for the edition, Floriano do Deserto moves from being an impertinent Don Juan to being a determined protector of damsels, and in place of the Erasmist irreverence of the original version, in this revised text Floriano bows in submission before the teachings of a clergyman who exhorts him to chastity (I. Almeida 1998, 279–92). The knight has in these narratives an axial role because the universe of chivalry is determined by arms, the arbiters of justice and order. Significantly, men of law are excluded from this imaginary universe. When an author, as in the case of Jorge Ferreira, does speak of the letrados (lawyers), it is to describe them negatively, as purveyors of perversity. A profound problem: does not Don Quixote die of melancholy, defeated by the trap of the Bachelor Sansón Carrasco?

War Typically the books of chivalry depict two worlds in conflict: the world of the Christians and the world of the Muslims, the former threatened by the Turkish powers of the time. War is a narrative feature of the genre throughout its history, and it is interesting to track the changing depictions of it over time. If the Castilian texts are filled with marvelous adventures from the mid-sixteenth century on, in the Portuguese books, themes related to war predominate, if with certain qualifications that are worthy of careful analysis. What can be highlighted from the Portuguese printed texts, despite their diversity, is a commitment to a certain ideal of heroism. In the texts of the first half of the sixteenth century (João de Barros’s Cronica do emperador Clarimundo and Francisco de Morais’s Palmeirim de Inglaterra), a radically chivalric conception of the art of war predominates; the battles have knights as their main protagonists; combat is decided by individual force and initiative; war and duel blur into one another, as war can be decided by a duel, and the battle itself is often conceived as an immense number of individual duels. But still, the vision of Barros is not to be confounded with that of Morais: Barros, without completely silencing the violence of war, makes it sublime, framing it in transcendent terms and granting the gestures of the hero an almost ludic significance. Morais prefers to emphasize contrast, between the festive and cheerful beginnings of martial posturing and the incommensurable cost of the “miséria, pesar, tristeza” (1852, 2:378; misery, suffering, sadness) that it ultimately provokes. The omniscience of the narrator is exploited in various wars throughout both texts: Barros emphasizes the pleasure of combat, with the hero discovering that with each mortal blow his sword deals out it sings the name of his beloved: “Clarim…da” (1522, 153); Morais sharpens the narrator’s gaze so as to intensify the pathos of the story, showing us the weakness of the heroes who do battle “com saluços e lágrimas” (1852, 3:335; with sobs and tears). The later narratives reveal an important transformation. The knights continue to be the main protagonists, but the number of warriors in the battles depicted increases, and more emphasis is placed on the idea of discipline and military strategy. Also, firearms make an appearance. Though these do not have the same importance in chivalric books as in the contemporary epic, they do constitute a symbol of a significant historical change. Sixteenth-century literature is full of complaints about the abominable machines that were dramatically changing the art of war. Ariosto deplored, along with many others “How, foul and pestilent discovery, / Didst thou find place within the human heart? / Through thee is martial

Books of chivalry169 glory lost, through thee / The trade of arms become a worthless art / And at such ebb are worth and chivalry, / That the base often plays the better part” (Ariosto 1824, 197; 11.26).8 It is significant, then, that Jorge Ferreira de Vasconcelos mentions projectiles, but only as metaphors for the feelings of the lovestruck hero or for the brutality of a fierce monster. In the representation of war they are not present. Nor does Diogo Fernandes mention them in his description of the civil war that ends the third part of Palmeirim de Inglaterra, but rather attributes the facile victory of the good to the exceptional talents of the hero. If in the narrative of Lobato firearms are mentioned, it is important to analyze the way in which they are introduced. Clarisol de Bretanha is remarkable for the presence within it of both mythic elements and aspects of contemporary and historical reality. The text mentions the “cruelíssima guerra de fogo e sangue” (cruel war of fire and blood) and a major sea battle. It is tempting to see this as a reference to the battle of Lepanto, a supposition that is supported by the title of Chapter 47: “Da espantosa batalha naval que passou entre as armadas cristãs e as dos turcos” (The terrifying naval battle between the Turkish and Christian armadas). At the same time, Lobato inflects his narrative with the feats of war that are traditionally associated with chivalric fiction: the reference to firearms is brief and vague; the injuries to the heroes, both knights and warrior princesses, are insignificant, and they carry out their activities with daggers, swords, and lances. The conflict, which starts as an affair involving thousands, ends in the “political” spectacle of a duel. Comparing the war to analogous games, Morais emphasized the seriousness of the battle. Lobato seems to opt for precisely the opposite strategy: not only does he substitute a personal duel for the battle, but he also figures this duel in terms of court games, writing that it is viewed from above by an audience of both Christians and Moors, “with each one placed in accordance with their social status. The Moors in large part had the best seats, and this was proper as courtesy given by those who deserve it shines longer.”9 In Clarisol de Bretanha, what we could consider the permeability of the real is supplanted by the triumph of fiction, and this conciliation of opposites serves to exalt fabulous literature: after the contrasts and tensions (dust and lances, glory and defeat, courtesy and aversion, suffering and fatuity), the war has a magical ending. It is not accidental that in his next step, Lobato describes the alliance, or more accurately, the fraternal friendship between Christians and Turks. This is a perfect dream, and it is precisely this, a kaleidoscope of illusions. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the books of chivalry had not abdicated their mythic and conciliatory vocation.

8.

“Como trovasti, o scelerata e brutta/invenzion, mai loco in umano core? / Per te la militar gloria è distrutta, / per te il mestier de l’arme è senza onore, / per te è il valore e la virtù ridutta / che spesso par del buono il rio migliore” (Ariosto 1990, 1:229).

9.

“cada um conforme ao merecimento de sua pessoa, posto que os mouros pela mor parte tiveram os milhores assentos, e assi era bem que fosse, que a cortesia usada com quem a merece fica lustrando muito mais do ordinário” (Lobato 1602, fol. 117r).

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Epilogue An exhaustive study of the survival of the books of chivalry has yet to be undertaken. Studies such as those of Aurelio Vargas Díaz-Toledo (2004 & 2005) and Tobias Brandenberger (2003) on the Portuguese tradition, and for the Spanish tradition, that of philologists such as José Manuel Lucía Megías, will shed light on the production and distribution of manuscript versions of these narratives after the watershed year of 1605. The fiction and theatre of the seventeenth century are characterized by the assimilation of the paradigms of chivalric books: characters, storylines, thematic emphasis, and discursive configurations can often be traced to specific narratives or the more diffuse influence of the genre. And if the transposition a lo divino (divine-like transposition) of the chivalric narratives was not very successful, we still have to pay attention to this attempt, as it is an index of a dynamic reception the genre provoked. That elements of the books of chivalry found expression in different genres reflects perhaps their renowned flexibility, a trait that we could, provocatively, express with an oxymoron — always the same, always different.

The sonnet in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century Xosé Manuel Dasilva Few examples of the poetic genre offer as clear a unity as the sonnet. For some authors, it is even a fixed paradigm, intrahistorical in nature, since from the moment of its invention to now it has changed very little, and the main innovations, themselves not very numerous, had to do with content (Rivers 1993b). Indeed, there is no debate about the straight course of the sonnet as a stable structure over time (Giocovate 1992). Cultivated from the Renaissance to today, it is an admirable example of survival of a literary model that has overcome all aesthetic changes. Despite this, the sonnet has not been seen, generally, as a literary genre in the strict sense of the word, since it lacked the singular combination of content and form that is usually required to belong to this category. There are divergent opinions about how the sonnet should be categorized. From certain positions, it is considered a lyric subgenre — the best known and most popular of all — that includes various types. According to other opinions, on the other hand, it is a fixed poetic form constituted by a highly codified metric structure, that does not for any reason deserve to be given the generic status of a superior entity. In any case, it seems undeniable that the sonnet embodies “an emotive and representative synthesis sculpted with fourteen blows of the poetic chisel” (Negrelli 1964, 6). And this poetic formula, highly praised and admired, has often been considered a worthy instrument for attaining aesthetic perfection, as this opinion shows: Much has been debated, and continues to be debated, about the eternal potentiality of this verse, undoubtedly the most successful of post-Latin poetry; but we must all agree that, in Petrarch’s or in Carducci’s time, in Garcilaso or Lugones, in Ronsard or in Apollinaire, a perfect sonnet signals the high point, not only of art, but also of poetic inspiration. (Díez Echarri 1970, 240–41)

In regard to the Iberian sphere, we must point out that the unity of the sonnet referred to above is even more clearly delineated. More than one critic has said that there are abundant links to the sonnet in Spain and Portugal, especially in the classical period. In fact, it would not be difficult to write a joint history of the development of this strophic model in both countries compared to its manifestations in other places, for example, the English or French sonnet. It is telling that from the many formal variations of the sonnet, similar catalogs have been developed in Spain and Portugal (López Hernández 1998, Cruz Filho 1961). No wonder Carolina Michaëlis de Vasconcelos defined the Portuguese sonnet as “that favorite form of the learned of the nation, their Peninsular lied” (1980, 8). From a historical perspective, we should emphasize that the sixteenth century is the period in which the practice of the sonnet is consolidated on the Peninsula. However, scholars do not agree on the entry channels of this poetic form. On the Spanish side, it is generally assumed that the history of the sonnet begins in the compositions included in the volume Las obras de Boscán y algunas de Garcilaso de la Vega (Boscán’s works and some by Garcilaso de la Vega, 1543), after the initial push, given in 1526 by Italian ambassador Andrea Navaggero’s participation in the betrothal of Eleanor of Austria and Francis I. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.16das © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Considering this question from the Portuguese side, certain authors claim, without dissenting from the above position, that during his 1521 visit to Italy, Sá de Miranda came to know the main players of the Renaissance, thanks to the intervention of his relative Vitoria Colona. Next, upon returning to Portugal, he stopped in Spain, interacting with Joan Boscà (Juan Boscán) and Garcilaso de la Vega, two poets whose presence is palpable throughout his work (A. P. de Castro 2004, 66–68). However, other Portuguese voices disagree with this theory. In their opinion, it is not so easy to establish on which side of the border poets began to compose sonnets regularly, and in any case, they bet on a simultaneous timeline, with no preference for one or the other (MourãoFerreira n.d., 643). In the absence of any documents to throw light on this historical question, we believe that any conclusion must therefore remain speculation (Marnoto 1997, 164–65). Aside from these chronological digressions, it interests us to examine the treatment that the sonnet receives from classical Spanish and Portuguese theorists. Through their characterizations, we can observe the common opinion that they had about this poetic form at the time. For example, Fernão Rodrigues Lobo Soropita, who was responsible for Camões’s Rhythmas (1595), declares the following about the sonnet in the prologue of that edition: [The sonnet is a] composition of the highest merit, because of its difficulty, in not allowing a single lazy or inefficient word, as well as in requiring all its material to fit within the limit of fourteen verses, closing the last tercet in such a way that the mind would not wish to move on, something at which many poets who walk the halls of fame had little success. (1595, fol. 8r-v)

The description of the sonnet given by Fernando de Herrera in his Anotaciones (Notes, 1580) to Garcilaso’s work is usually cited as a model from among various Peninsular authors. We will focus, nonetheless, on the definition of the sonnet that Manuel de Faria e Sousa included, some decades later, in his notes on poetic theory regarding the lyric verses by Camões collected in the Rimas varias (Diverse rhymes). The reason is that in his definition we can see an indication of the unity of the sonnet on both sides of the Spanish-Portuguese border: So much is being taught, that if a sonnet must not have more than one idea, it should be arranged so that the finest part of it be most highlighted in the last tercet. It is like the ride of a fine horseman, watched more as he stops than as he takes off or as he runs. It is sometimes a rocket, which, flying brightly and loudly, comes to a stop with an even greater roar. And, as we have said, although it must remain one idea organized with care, it must also be laid out so that each quatrain says something to attract the attention. The first tercet may receive less care, because normally it serves to set up the greater point that will come in the last. Thus is written a worthy sonnet. (Faria e Sousa 1685, n.p. § 19)

There are other circumstances that support the sonnet as a poetic form especially in Iberian territory. It is worth mentioning Faria e Sousa again, in this case to underline his work as a commentator, because in annotating Camões’s sonnets he reveals a vast erudition that leads him to view as natural a comparison to many Spanish poets. The author of the Rimas varias does this because he believes it is necessary in order to reach the truest meaning of many obscure passages of the great Portuguese poet. But Faria e Sousa is also aware, as he carries out this activity, that the literary code to which Camões’s sonnets belonged obliged him to consider countless Spanish poems. The German scholar Michaëlis de Vasconcelos (1910) would later adopt a similar attitude to editorial work. Supporting the unity of the Peninsular sonnet, on a different level, it is not by chance that Fidelino de Figueiredo paid no attention, in his extraordinary study Pyrene: ponto de vista para

The sonnet in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century173 uma introdução á Historia comparada das literaturas portuguesa e espanhola (Pyrene: An introduction to a comparative history of Portuguese and Spanish literatures, 1935), to recording the points of Spanish-Portuguese contact regarding the sonnet during the classical period. This is despite the fact that in an annex to his work, this pioneer of Iberian comparatism lists 134 possible topics of study over the course of the literary history of the two countries (Figueiredo 1935, 137–45). No doubt these points of contact were so obvious that Figueiredo did not feel it necessary to indicate any particular subject that could be researched. Somewhat different, although equally revealing on the topic of the Spanish-Portuguese unity of the sonnet, is the example given by Jorge de Sena. As an analyst of Camões’s sonnets, this Portuguese author has a special monograph that bears the very telling title Os Sonetos de Camões e o Soneto Quinhentista Peninsular (Camões’s sonnets and the Peninsular sixteenth-century sonnet), which was first presented as academic work for a Brazilian university (Sena 1969). Sena’s main objective is to develop a critical edition of Camões’s lyric poetry that has different theoretical bases from the impressionism of previous editions. As part of this project, he conceived the aforementioned monograph, in order to determine a reliable corpus of Camões’s sonnets. As far as our interests go, we should mention that Os Sonetos de Camões e o Soneto Quinhentista Peninsular is an attempt to determine the compositions authentically written by Camões, using the Peninsular sonnet as a starting point. In the volume, he exhaustively analyzes the external form of a series of sonnets attributed to Camões, a form which he understands as the metric characteristics of the tercets. According to Sena’s hypothesis, there would be a high level of probability that a sonnet was by Camões if it corresponded to the structures used most often by the author. It is important to explain that in this study, Sena compares the tercet rhyming schemes used by many Spanish and Portuguese authors, such as Boscà, Garcilaso de la Vega, Hurtado de Mendoza, Francisco Sá de Miranda, the infante Don Luís, João de Lencastre, Pero de Andrade Caminha, António Ferreira, Diogo Bernardes, Francisco de Aldana, Fernando de Herrera, and Gutierre de Cetina. This attitude shows the unity of the Spanish-Portuguese sonnet in the sixteenth century, since in his methodology, regarding this strophic mold, Sena starts from an Iberian vision of lyric poetry of the period. Another piece of evidence that ratifies the unity of the sonnet on the Peninsula in the classical period is, of course, the bilingualism that permeates the poetic work of many Portuguese authors. On that subject, the uniformity of the poetic form in Iberian territory is so great that on some occasions, it has been thought that only applying a philological criterion, tied to the language used, would allow us to determine literary boundaries, and even then not in all cases, because there are countless Portuguese authors who wrote sonnets in Spanish. As we know, in the fifteenth century, Portuguese literature began a bilingual period that would continue in later centuries. It is quite telling that in the sixteenth century, the majority of Portuguese authors, with the exception of Bernardim Ribeiro, António Ferreira, Agostinho da Cruz, and Jorge Ferreira de Vasconcelos, wrote their work partly in Spanish (Martínez Almoyna; Vieira de Lemos 1959, 14). Their reasons were varied, from historical to political, even geographical and religious. There are many statements from the authors themselves that allow us to understand their reasons, a significant one being the wish to disseminate their work on a broader scale, taking advantage of the range of the Spanish language (Dasilva 2006). We should add, however, that bilingualism was in no case a harmless practice, as some authors believed. Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo believed that the bilingual Portuguese writing of

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the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries signified a literary manifestation of the creative genius of the people, and he gave many works as examples, among which Jorge de Montemor’s Diana stands out. But Pilar Vázquez Cuesta’s research shows firmly that the bilingualism that dominated Portuguese literature during that period presented a significant danger, as it slowly transformed, under the dual monarchy, into a situation of diglossia (Vázquez Cuesta 1981 & 1988). In that setting, Portuguese became a secondary language, while Spanish secured itself as the language of prestige as it extended to all literary genres. Along with many other testimonies, Vázquez Cuesta evokes this lament by Manuel de Galhegos in the prologue to his Templo da Memoria (Temple of memory, 1636): Because the Portuguese language is not dominant today, those geniuses who, with their writing, could enrich and justify it, will forget it, and he who now dares to go out into the world with a book of verse in Portuguese risks appearing lowly. (quoted in Vázquez Cuesta 1988, 120)

As the foregoing shows, it is obvious that the sonnet is a magnificent example of the intertexual relationships that we must outline, in the broad context of Peninsular poetic creation in the sixteenth century. Just as Elias L. Rivers (1992) stated, we could define any sonnet from that period, regardless of its author, as a small nucleus that combines fragments of a vast text. In reality, that text began to be forged in classical Antiquity, later to be further developed in various Romance literatures, including Spanish and Portuguese (Brown 1975, 1976 & 1979). The sonnet signified, for the author who wished to test his skill, a suggestive poetic challenge, by allowing him to play with the infinite possibilities that, within its concise limits, exist between metric arrangement and semantic and syntactic structures (Rivers 1957, 1958 & 1963). To account for the variations of the sonnet (Mönch 1955 & Spitzer 1958), the strongest tentative methodology developed in the Iberian sphere up until now may perhaps be Antonio García Berrio’s. His theoretical offerings, expressed in numerous studies, are generally limited to Spanish literature, although they are easily applicable to Portuguese literature, which, of course, is another indication of the unity of the sonnet in Iberian territory. García Berrio’s contribution is, basically, offering a theoretical instrument that takes as a starting point the belief that lyric production in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries uses a small number of thematic motifs and constructive patterns. In his opinion, therefore, it is not a complex task to obtain a typology of the semantic elements and formal processes most frequently used by classical authors. García Berrio believes that the lyric poetry of that period makes up a systematic set that uses a small collection of topics and forms, because the context of creation has a great effect on its crystallization. The Italian aesthetic theories formulated in the Renaissance period would thus have acted as a model that influenced, with almost complete supremacy, the aesthetic ideology of the other Western literatures, including the Spanish and the Portuguese. The weight of tradition, therefore, is of essential importance in the particular creation of each text, because as he composed his poems, the classical artist bore in mind the most prestigious literary models. Due to the particular nature of the classical creative process, it is important to formulate, as García Berrio maintains, a complete typology of this poetic material in order to perceive its high degree of homogeneity. García Berrio believes that there is a great difference between classical art and modern art, encapsulated in the concept of topical and formal systemization that he attributes to the former, in contrast to the conception of literature that would emerge after Romanticism. In the sixteenth century, as well as in the next, there is a rigid topical organization,

The sonnet in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century175 on the thematic and on the expressive level. This requires us to understand, from the current perspective, the presence of a limited catalog of norms in each text, which is ultimately what explains its artistic character. Anyone who studies the poetry of the period must, in short, pay special attention to the connections that can be found between each text and the set of rules of the literary tradition to which it belongs, which is of decisive importance for the poet (García Berrio 1981, 146). With such a strategy we can go further than the mere differentiation of the unprecedented or topical nature of the text, an objective which, furthermore, modern research seeks to achieve, in many cases, through current perspectives that are anachronistic and even dangerous. This is due to the fact that the perspectives in question falsely attribute the aesthetic quality of the text to its degree of originality, without considering that the classic poet’s goal is retractio, that is, the novel arrangement of the themes and forms that he has inherited from his predecessors. The aesthetic ideal of classical poetry, as García Berrio explains, is composed of a defined system of very few rules, in which the creative freedom of the poet is limited. Hence, it is not correct to judge an author of the period only by his supposed level of originality, because it is certain that the author himself was strongly conditioned by the basic principle of the predominant aesthetic ideology. That principle consisted of making repetition and reproduction of models a strength and not a symptom of poor quality poetry, as we might think today, by using them to invent new lyric universes. In addition to establishing that literary tradition is the most active component of the context in which each author’s production is situated, another interesting idea expressed by García Berrio (1979) refers to the perfect adherence to classical norms in the sonnet, the most illustrious and complicated metric form in European poetry of the sixteenth century. The sonnet represents, particularly, the strophic structure which gives the literary creator the least space to exercise his freedom. This is due not only to the compositional requirements that are indispensable to this poetic form, but also to the fact that it is in this genre that the poet most clearly manifests the practice of revising the thematic and formal elements that come from his predecessors, of which he decides to take advantage in a curious exercise of imitation (García Berrio 1978, 23). The sonnet is a limited sphere in which the artistic talent of the writer becomes transparent and difficult to disguise, since the meagreness of the fourteen verses that comprise it leaves no room for error. This circumstance is the element that most enables us, García Berrio assures us, to turn a set of sonnet texts into a field of experimentation appropriate for perceiving, through a broad and complete typology, the way certain semantic and constructive topical schemas function (García Berrio 1981, 147). We need not underline the fact that García Berrio’s proposed analysis may seem excessively formalist, and we might even accuse him of being oblivious to the aesthetic value of any given lyrical text. Nonetheless, it is an attempt to find the literal sense of the poem according to artistic coordinates, dominated by the theoretical principles of imitatio and retractio, in which each piece emerges completely naturally. One field of experimentation that is very illustrative of the foregoing is the so-called “sonnet-prologue” (Dasilva 2002a & 2002b). It is a lyric subgenre, strictly codified, which is usually fundamental for achieving a unified collection following the model developed by Petrarch in his collection of fragmenta. The sonnet-prologue has the nature of an introduction or preface, guaranteed by its privileged position with respect to the remaining compositions. It is always a

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poem, furthermore, which the lyric sender conceives when he acknowledges, now in his mature years, that he was wrong during the passionate period of his youth. It is a type of composition, therefore, with some notes of the medieval exempla, carrying out the function of a condensed notice, like the rhetorical exordium, of what will appear in the subsequent parts of the book of poetry organized like canzoniere. The original source of this subgenre is Petrarch’s sonnet Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono (You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes), which occupies first place in the Canzoniere with the mission of relating that the successive fragmenta refer to a past phase of false romantic hopes. We can easily see that over time, many Iberian poets incorporate into their canzonieri a prefatory sonnet based on this model. Juan Manuel Rozas (1964) traced the history of the sonnetprologue, showing that it is a real subgenre that enjoyed great success thanks to the variants that many authors added to the Petrarchian source. We can see that the influence of the sonnet Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono was soon modified in a romantic piece by Catalan poet Ausiàs March, Qui no és trist, de mos dictats no cur (Those who aren’t sad, don’t need bother with my works), in which a novel concept emerges, that readers who have not suffered in love should not bother with his verses. If we focus on the concrete example of Camões, for example, we can determine that twelve compositions exist, that have sometime been attributed to him, that belong to the sonnet-­ prologue subgenre — an exaggerated tally. We cannot accept that these dozen pieces are his, especially because such a high number of sonnet-prologues would make the author of Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads) an anomaly in Iberian poetry. In reality, there is sufficient evidence to allow that some sonnets belong to a believable corpus. Without going into it any further, we can sum up by saying that only the sonnets Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse (While Fortune was disposed to cheer my sight), Eu cantarei do Amor tão docemente (I’ll sing a song of love so sweet) and Sospiros inflamados, que cantais (Passionate sighs, who sing) can reasonably be considered to have been written by Camões (Dasilva 2001). Regarding the first poem selected, Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse, we should indicate that it is an authentic sonnet-prologue, because it meets the majority of the criteria that define that subgenre. Among these criteria, we should mention the use of the sonnet form, the highlighted position compared to the other pieces, the invocation of the reader as a fellow — more than as a literary judge — in the torments caused by love, the influence of certain models developed by Petrarch and Ausiàs March, the desire to serve as a cautionary tale for others, and, lastly, a formal characteristic stemming from the use of the -ento rhyme in this type of sonnets (Rozas 1969). Camões’s sonnet Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse appears to be a piece created to serve as preamble to a collection of previously-written love poems. We can even imagine that the sonnet was written to precede a series of pieces set out in a particular order, like a Petrarchianstyle canzoniere that would reflect the romantic experience lived by the writer. The introductory nature of this sonnet was noted by all the editors of Camões’s work, which led to it appearing first in all the collections of poems offered to readers since the first ones to be printed in the sixteenth century. In his Rimas varias, Faria e Sousa would demonstrate this quality of Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse, and furthermore, he would present quite a faithful description of the sonnet-prologue subgenre, establishing its history in the Iberian sphere:

The sonnet in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century177 This sonnet is the introduction to these Rhymes; and the greatest that I have found in all the authors of similar poems. It might seem that in saying this I would be obliged to include here those of the greatest poets. I beg you excuse me, for not wishing to spend time on things that do not serve the purpose I set forth here; for even this makes me take too long, although I say but what is necessary; and also because the learned may examine my claim, if they do not wish to give credence to our judgment. Petrarch is the first to offer his Rhymes in this form; and afterwards Bembo and Casa imitated him, along with others who remained inferior to him. Our scholar Garcilaso did not organize his to be printed, and if he had, it would have been with great skill. Whoever published them selected from his sonnets the one that was most suitable to go at the beginning. Lope de Vega imitated Petrarch well, beginning Versos de Amor, conceptos esparcidos. For my part, recording six centuries of sonnets, I made an introduction to each one, because of their variety; and also in the six parts that follow, according to the subjects, I attempted to imitate the masters. (Faria e Sousa 1685, 1)

The prefatory character of Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse makes its arguments serve as a lesson for those who truly love, showing them the dangers of passion. When the lyric speaker still had hope of some happiness, his amorous intentions led him to write poems which described the effects of such emotions. However, love feared that these poems would reveal its devices, and for this reason it eclipsed the poet’s inspiration with various sorrows. The lover calls the attention of those that are captivated by amorous desire and indicates that the verses they are about to read contain naked truths: While Fortune was disposed to cheer my sight With hope some consolation here to find, With pleasing tone of thought it cheered my mind, So that of its influence I could write; But Love, from fear that in my page I might To some free revelation be inclined, With torment turned my inclination blind, Lest I should bring his own deceits to light. Oh! ye, whom Love compels the slaves to be Of varous wills, when reading shall reveal Such things as I in this small book rehearse, Nought feigned, but all of purest verity, Know that, according to the love ye feel, The spirit ye shall feel of this my verse. (Aubertin 1881, 5)1

The first stanza refers to the lover’s earlier days, in which his fortune, still good, allowed him to cherish hopes of seeing his love requited. The lyric speaker, transformed into an implicit author as the fictional person responsible for the poems, felt at the time the need to sing of his feelings, because the happiness of sweet passion prompted him to do so. But love, fearful that his message 1.

“Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse / Esperança de algum contentamento, / O gosto de hum suave pensamento / Me fez que seus efeitos escrevesse. / Porém temendo Amor que aviso désse / Minha escriptura a algum juizo isento, / Escureceo-me o engenho co’ o tormento, / Para que seus enganos não dissesse. // Ó vós, que Amor obriga a ser sujeitos / A diversas vontades! quando lerdes / N’hum breve livro casos tão diversos! // (Verdades puras são, e não defeitos) / Entendei que, segundo o amor tiverdes, / Tereis o entendimento de meus versos” (Aubertin 1881, 4).

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would warn those who were ignorant of its devices, will soon wrest away his inspiration, leaving his soul only sorrow. After this first phase, the lyric speaker, again transformed into implicit author, directs a dramatic invocation to the addressees of his poems, in the last two stanzas. Called to with the pronoun “ye” (“vós”), they would feel subjected to love when they read, in his short book, the damage that passion can provoke. Because the content of the verses is not presented as feigned sentiments, but rather as authentic lived experience, and based on their own experience of love, the readers can understand the emotions contained within them. In the sonnet Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse, two phrases were problematic, and gave rise to exaggerated interpretations that, on the one hand, affected the creation of the editorial canon of Camões’s work, and on the other hand, influenced scholars’ determination to extract real-life episodes from the fiction of the poems. Firstly, the expression “breve livro” — referring, supposedly, to the length of Camões’s lyric work — was used by Faria e Sousa to justify the belief that the poet intended to publish only a part of his output, leaving the worst poems unpublished. Secondly, the expression “verdades puras,” read literally and not contrasted with the Iberian Petrarchian code, was considered evidence that Camões’s poems could be interpreted in the light of autobiographical assumptions. According to this subjectivist perspective, Camões’s poems would have been written in all sincerity, offering a testimony of the life of the author, believable up to the minutest detail admitted in any part of his work. According to this conception, which dismisses pretense as an essential element of creative writing, we should interpret the storylines of Camões’s poems in a realist context, and even glean from them biographical data that the absence of reliable historical documents leaves unknown. Regarding this issue, we must, nonetheless, note that the claim of truth contained in the phrase “verdades puras,” contrasted with “defectos,” touches on a common topic. It has to do with the desire to, using fictional means, look as though the lyric speaker’s confessions of love can be linked to the lived experience of the author that invents them. Some critics’ interpretation of this poem underlines, from a purely literary standpoint, separated from any biographical temptation, this common topic. For these critics, the message of the last two lines of the sonnet, in keeping with the poetics of Petrarchian imitatio vitae, would strike a balance between the feigned truth that the lyric speaker claims and the call to solidarity in love that he asks of the reader (V. M. de A. e Silva 1981). This literary illusion, of global scope in Iberian poetry developed from Petrarch’s model, is even more obvious in the sonnet-prologue. We need only compare Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse to poems of the same type by other Iberian authors to realize the semantic similarities that they share. And, of course, it is these same similiarites that oblige us to not read these poems with a purely biographical purpose. Although we have not identified any particular model that Camões might have imitated, there are various compositions that are analogous to Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse. As I have said, the source of the sonnet-prologue is in Petrarch’s poem Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono, which occupies first position, as a lyric prologue, in the Canzoniere. The most important similarity between this sonnet and Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse is the vocative pronoun “ye” (“vós”) referring to the readers, which converts both pieces into an invocation to them as addressees of the poems. The similar temporal standpoint, which allows the lyric speaker to

The sonnet in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century179 contemplate earlier days from the regret of the present, proffering his verses as a lesson to others, is also evident. In addition to the Petrarchian model, Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse hearkens back to Boscà’s sonnet Nunca d’amor estuve tan contento (I was never from love so content), particularly in that which concerns the form “vós” to address the readers. In both pieces it appears in the same place, that is to say, at the beginning of the first tercet: I was never from love so content That my words did sing its praise Nor have I ever counseled anyone to be fooled Seeking in love contentment. My mind has always thought thus: That every man should guard against this pain, And hence, because this law remained, I please to serve as a caution to all. O! ye who follow my writing Eager to read sad torments Which, thanks to love, are infinite, My verses are to tell you, “O, blessed Those on whom God had such great mercy That he freed you from love’s clutches!” (my translation)2

Camões’s sonnet also shows some echoes of the first verses of the aforementioned piece by Ausiàs March, Qui no és trist, de mos dictats no cur. We can see this in the invitation to readers to read the poems in keeping with the intensity of their romantic feelings: Only sad lovers, or who once were such, need bother reading anything I write; but those of you whose lives are shot with pain don’t drag your sadness off to some dark hole: just read my poems, full of frenzied thoughts, a madman’s ravings, without the aid of art. And why am I forced to live in such distress? That only love can know, whose fault it is. (Archer 2006, 73)3

2.

“Nunca d’amor estuve tan contento / que’n su loor mis versos ocupasse; / ni a nadie consejé que s’ engañasse / buscando en el amor contentamiento. // Esto siempre juzgó mi entendimiento: / que d’este mal tod’hombre se guardasse, / y assí, porque ‘sta ley se conservasse, / holgué de ser a todos escarmiento. // ¡O! vosotros que andáys tras mis escritos / gustando de leer tormentos tristes, / segun que por amar son infinitos, // mis versos son deziros. ‘¡O benditos / los que de Dios tan gran merced huvistes / que del poder d’amor fuéssedes quitos!’” (Boscán 1995, 89).

3.

“Qui no és trist, de mos dictats no cur, / o en algun temps que sia trist estat, / e lo qui és de mals passionat, / per fer-se trist no cerque lloc escur: / llija mos dits, mostranys pensa torbada, / sens alguna art, exits d’hom fora seny. / E la raó que en tal dolor m’empeny / amor ho sab, qui n’és causa estada” (Archer 2006, 72).

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We can identify some similarities between Camões’s piece and Hernando de Acuña’s sonnet Huir procuro el encarecimiento (I try to avoid praising). A reading of both texts shows that they share the thematic motif derived from the intention to versify only truths, and not deceits, and the argument that their verses should serve as a cautionary tale: I try to avoid praising, I wish there to be no mistake in my verses, But rather for them to show my pain so great That one feels the real feeling. Showing exactly how I feel it Will be so new to the world, so strange That the mere memory of my hurt Will give warning and lesson to many. Hence, reading or having told to them My passions, they can then avoid Following the error of my path And right themselves in a safer harbour, Where they can, with their ships adrift In this stormy sea, save themselves. (my translation)4

Eu cantarei do Amor tão docemente, the second of Camões’s poems selected as a sonnet-prologue, also contains a large number of the characteristics of the subgenre. The lyric speaker promises to sing most sweetly of love, to make those who do not know the emotion of love feel it. He will make love manifest for all those who hear his song, describing the many signs born of passion. These signs, which he introduces, are the small and sweet rages, the abundant laments, bashful audacity, and the pain of absence. Furthermore, the lyric speaker promises to sing to his love, giving few details of the modest scorn with which she returns his love. Nonetheless, he acknowledges with humility that he will not sing the song he would have liked to sing, because he lacks the power to praise the lady’s high appearance: I’ll sing a song of love so sweet, so blessed with harmonious sounds, so true to the name of love (with two thousand examples), it will enflame even those with dead hearts in their chest. My song will ignite new love in everyone, painting the thousand mysteries: the caring angers, the beautiful sighs, the dreadful daring, and all the pains of love that’s come undone. And yet, I’ll say so very little, my Love, 4.

“Huir procuro el encarecimiento, / no quiero que en mis versos haya engaño, / sino que muestren mi dolor tamaño / cual le siente en efeto el sentimiento. // Que mostrándole tal cual yo le siento / será tan nuevo al mundo y tan extraño, / que la memoria sola de mi daño / a muchos pondrá aviso y escarmiento. // Así, leyendo o siéndoles contadas / mis pasiones, podrán luego apartarse / de seguir el error de mis pisadas // y a más seguro puerto enderezarse, / do puedan con sus naves despalmadas / en la tormenta deste mar salvarse” (Rubio González 1981, 103).

The sonnet in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century181 about your rigorous virtue — about the true but scrupulous look in your lovely eyes. Sweetheart, I won’t attempt to sing of you, or of the miraculous, lofty essence of you, because I lack the skill, the genius, and the art. (Baer 2005, 127)5

In his Rimas varias, Faria e Sousa demonstrated the prefatory nature of this sonnet, relating it to Em quanto quis Fortuna que tivesse. Camões’s editor establishes Petrarch’s poem Io canterei d’amor sí novamente (I’d like to sing of love so differently) as its model, and notes that that piece appears as number 102 in the Canzoniere. I can show the affinities between the two texts, but I must specify that they are only found in the first stanza: I’d like to sing of love so differently that I could draw by force from her hard side a thousand sighs a day, and I could kindle in her cold mind a thousand deep desires. I’d like to see her lovely face change often, her eyes becoming wet, and with more pity turning as one does who repents too late of another’s suffering and his own error; to see those deep red roses in the snow moved by the breeze, the ivory uncovered that turns to marble who observes it close, and all of her that has made this short life not burdensome to bear, but rather glorious in keeping for a season more mature. (Musa 1996, 217)6

The most visible characteristic of Eu cantarei do Amor tão docemente may be the association between the praise of love and the praise of the lady, that the lyric speaker, turned implicit author, promises to sing. The grammatical markers Eu cantarei do Amor and Farei o Amor, that appear at the beginning of the first two stanzas, highlight this. In keeping with this thematic schema, in the quatrains, the poet effects his song of love, outlining the nature of all the symptoms of enamored individuals. The intention is, through these examples, to cause those who are immune to love to experience the phenomenon. As the second quatrain indicates, the lyric speaker wishes to show all the reactions inherent to love, communicating them through his writing. Hence, in four parts, he lists the fury, the sighs, the daring, and the nostalgia of love. 5.

“Eu cantarei do Amor tão docemente, / per uns termos em si tão concertados, / que dous mil acidentes namorados / faça sentir ao peito que não sente. / Farei o Amor a todos evidente, / pintando mil segredos delicados, / brandas iras, sospiros descuidados, / temerosa ousadia e pena a[u]sente. / Também, Senhora, do d[e]spre[z] o honesto / de vossa vista branda e rigurosa, / contentar-me-ei dizendo a menor parte. / Porém, p[e]ra cantar de vosso gesto / a composição alta e milagrosa, / aqui falta saber, engenho e arte” (Baer 2005, 128).

6.

“Io cantarei d’amor sí novamente / ch’al duro fiancho il dí mille sospiri / trarrei per forza, et mille alti desiri / raccenderei ne la gelata mente; // e ‘l bel viso vedrei cangiar sovente, / et bagnar gli occhi, et piú pietosi giri / far, come suol che degli altrui martiri / et del suo error quando non val si pente; // et le rose vermiglie infra la neve / mover da l’òra, et discovrir l’avorio / che fa di marmo chi da presso ‘l guarda; // e tutto quel per che nel viver breve / non rincresco a me stesso, anzi mi glorio / d’esser servato a la stagion piú tarda” (Musa 1996, 216).

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In the tercets the addressee of the praise that the lyric speaker presents changes; it is now the lady. But I must also note that the lyric speaker modifies his attitude, and the firmness of the quatrains becomes humility, due to the high character of the beloved lady. The lyric speaker declares, first, that he will only sing of the positive aspects of his lady, “saying” (“dizendo”) very little of the strict soberness with which the lady meets his amorous appeals. In the second tercet he adds the idea of his lack of competence to properly praise someone of such high virtue, because he has not the “skill, genius, and art” (“saber, engenho e arte”), as he lists in the last line of the sonnet. In Camões’s sonnet Sospiros inflamados, que cantais, the last of the three pieces selected for this analysis, one can again see the intention that one’s own writing serve as a warning, gained from experience. It is a new palinode, with different characteristics from the sonnet-prologue, in which the lover, as the person responsible for the piece as as an implicit author, repents of his past mistakes and thus asks that his poetry be understood from an exemplary perspective. At a time when the remedy of death is not far, the lyric speaker addresses his verses as “sos­ piros inflamados,” telling them that their fate will be to remain in this world as an illustration of the ills of love. Hence, by reading texts in which the dangers of false emotions are obvious, others will learn of the treacherous ploys of love and fortune: Passionate sighs, who sing The sadness with which I lived so happily! I die and do not take you with me, because I fear That, crossing the river Lethe, you will be lost. Written now forever you stay, Where all will see you, As an example of wrongs; that I allow, For the warning of others, you to be. And those who have false hopes Of Love and Fortune, whose harms Some may take for happiness, Tell them you served for many years, And that in Fortune all is reversal, And that in Love there is nothing but deceit. (my translation)7

The first quatrain begins with an address to the verses themselves, “Sospiros inflamados, que cantais / a tristeza com que vivi tão ledo!” Through a paradoxical, clever expression, this evokes earlier times, when the lyric speaker was happy in sorrow. Now on the point of death, his poems will not accompany him on his next journey, because he fears they will disappear as he crosses the river Lethe. The convenient mythological allusion recalls the threat that river’s waters pose to remembrance, since they are capable of making one lose all one’s memories. But the lyric

7.

“Sospiros inflamados, que cantais / a tristeza com que vivi tão ledo! / Eu mo[u]ro e não vos levo, porque hei medo / que, ao passar d[o] Lete, vos percais. // Escritos p[e]ra sempre já ficais, / onde vos mostrarão todos com o dedo, / como exemplo de males; que eu concedo / que, pera aviso(s) de outros, estejais. // E em quem virdes falsas [e]speranças / do Amor e da Fortuna, cujos danos / alguns terão por bem-aventuranças, / deze[i]-lhe que os servistes muitos anos, / e que em Fortuna tudo são mudanças, / e que em Amor não há senão enganos” (Camões 1980, 87).

The sonnet in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century183 speaker’s intention is precisely that the past not be forgotten, so that his desperate account remain forever for its readers. In the second quatrain he expresses his wish to stop his creations from leaving this world, so that their fame can serve as a great lesson about romantic disillusionment and pain. In the two tercets, linked together with no break, the lover invites the passionate sighs that are born of his ills, that is, the verses that gush from his pen. They must instruct those who still live in illusion, who naively think that bad fortune is good, that love and fortune only permit uncertain hope. With this analysis of the sonnet-prologue, mainly through Camões’s work, though not without reference to other Peninsular authors, I have attempted to show the common history of the Spanish-Portuguese sonnet in the sixteenth century. I have selected this case from many other possible examples, in which the unity of the Iberian sonnet in that period is obvious, though unfortunately, it has not been given its due attention over time.

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century) Maria Fernanda de Abreu The genre: history and criticism An important part of the historiography and criticism of picaresque fiction has limited the canonical existence of this genre to a precise period, geography, language, and literary nationality. Thus, respectively, its chronological limits are located from the middle of the sixteenth to the middle of the seventeenth century, in Spain, and written in Castilian, with its protagonists and most of the action taking place in Spain. As such, the genre is inscribed to so-called Spanish literature. Such an approach corresponds to a rigorous repertoire, definitively listed, for example, by Pablo Jauralde (2001, xxvii), who considers that it comprises around twenty novels, from El Lazarillo de Tormes (The life of Lazarillo de Tormes and of his fortunes and adversities, 1554), Guzmán de Alfarache (1599, 1604), La vida del Buscón llamado Don Pablos (History of the life of the swindler called Don Pablos, 1626) until La Vida y Hechos de Estebanillo González, hombre de buen humor (Life and facts of Estebanillo González, man of good humour, 1646) and El criticón (The critic), around ten years later. In 2001, Florencio Sevilla published La novela picaresca española, stating that “no one will say that the novels herein published, in one volume, don’t give the reader a complete and exhaustive view of the genre that they represent” (2001, xlviii). The contents show twenty titles, ranging from Lazarillo to Periquillo, el de las gallineras (Periquillo, the hen house guy, 1668). In the introduction, however, he prudently states beforehand that “not everything is there that is, nor can it be stated that everything that is there, is” (2001, xlviii). Even by delimiting in this way, despite numerous attempts to trace its generic and somewhat well-founded proposals, a unique repertoire cannot be so determined and accepted by all. On the contrary, and just to give one example, in the 1950s and 1960s, two studies, one by Samuel Gili Gaya (1953) and the other by Alexander A. Parker (1967), were published which would both become classics and which both provided generic definitions in highly different ways. It is not my intention to summarize here all of the more successful attempts to define the genre, which have been endlessly described in introductions to the genre. Prior to the synthesis of these critical works provided by Florencio Sevilla in the work mentioned above, Antonio Rey Hazas (1990) also devoted an important study to the genre, including a definition, constructive elements, genesis and an indication of its heirs and of its importance in the formation of the modern novel. In this study, the list also includes twenty titles, different, however, from the one presented in the previously mentioned studies. From this limited corpus, which extended over slightly more than a century, a canonical set of features was then fixed, including an autobiographical and epistolary format (a first person narration that is in fact a pseudo-autobiography), along with the presence of a protagonist — the pícaro (rogue) — who wanders from region to region and from one master to another, in search of basic means of survival, such as killing his hunger, as being essential and indispensable elements. In showing the other side of life and society, the low side, at a time when everything was antithetically ordered into high and low, epic and satirical, such heroes were and, until the present doi 10.1075/chlel.29.17dea © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century)185 day, are called anti-heroes. To consider them as counter-heroes or, in the same vein, the picaresque genre as counter-genre, as Claudio Guillén has done, is thus to give value to the literary and cultural rights of a hero coming from the low side and thus transgressing the literary and cultural, not to mention social, political, and historical rights acquired by the high side, and, therefore, imposed on the other by this high side. These concerns with regard to the difficulty in establishing the specificity of the genre were demonstrated in a conference held at Cologne University in Germany in May 2008, under the title of “La novela picaresca española y sus proyecciones europeas — un género en debate” (The Spanish picaresque novel and its European projections — A genre under debate). In the same year, the same research group published a set of studies entitled La novela picaresca. Concepto genérico y evolución del género (Siglos XVI y XVII). In the Preface to the work, Klaus MeyerMinnemann, one of the editors, clarifies that the aims of this research group consist in “drawing up a generic model of the picaresque novel and to analyze its evolution through its representative works,” and notes that “The terminus ad quo in this evolution evidently had to be Lazarillo de Tormes and his literary success.” But as for the terminus ad quem, early on it was considered that “a generic model of the picaresque novel and the analysis of its particular instances should not be limited to examples originally stemming from Spain” and should take into account its ramifications (Meyer-Minneman 2008, 9). At the same time, a national and historical frame guided much of the criticism of the picaresque genre for centuries. This was still the case at the end of the first half of the twentieth century, as Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza shows so well when La familia de Pascual Duarte (The family of Pascual Duarte, 1942) and Nuevas andanzas y desventuras de Lazarillo de Tormes (New fortunes and misfortunes of Lazarillo de Tormes, 1944) were published in Spain and in Castilian by Camilo José Cela, a future Nobel Laureate. In reviewing comments which appeared regarding these publications, concerning the so-called picaresque “reactivation,” Cabo Aseguinolaza notes an “effort to give room to a national and historical repertoire” in which “the picaresque will by force play a role of the first order” (1997, 170). Earlier on, he had cautioned: “It can certainly be stated without fear of exaggeration that [the idea of the picaresque] is one of the backbones of the historiographical and ideological conceptualisation of Spanish literature since the last quarter of the eighteenthth century” (156). This critical framework, incidentally, and like all “nationalist” models, can also have its flip side, especially when manipulated by others. Take, for example, what the Portuguese philosopher and intellectual Agostinho da Silva wrote regarding the picaresque, in his introduction to a collection of great authors (1942, n.p.): Guzmán’s success, besides perhaps pointing to a certain lack of higher aesthetic feeling in the Spanish of his time, shows us that in the misery and turpitude that were being described, they were able to recognize the men who were not sustained by the fields of Castile, who did not get a minimum and truly human education and who spent their life working for enterprises and people who were of no interest to them.

However, although a limited understanding of the genre restricts it to the Siglo de Oro (Golden Age) and Spain, the “idea” of the picaresque, as already mentioned, will extend to the present day and take on a transnational scope. It will also take on a supra-regional scope within the Iberian Peninsula, as the examples that will be presented here seem to prove, both in terms of literary

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production and criticism. A key milestone in theoretical and historiographical studies on the picaresque took place with the work carried out by Guillén. In 1953 he defended his thesis for his doctoral degree at Harvard University with a dissertation entitled “The anatomies of roguery: A comparative study in the origins and the nature of picaresque literature” (published as Guillén 1987). In August 1961, at the Third International Comparative Literature Association Congress (Utrecht), he opened his lecture “Toward a definition of the picaresque” with the following words: “The publication of various contemporary novels of a more or less roguish character has proved, beyond any doubt, that to regard the picaresque as an event of the past only is a pedantic and erroneous view” (Guillén 1971, 71). Linking these words to his Literature as system provides us with a more consistent theoretical framework. More recently, Cabo Aseguinolaza, in his book El concepto de género y la literatura picaresca (The concept of genre and the picaresque novel, 1992), has theoretically updated these concepts and the idea of genre. In his 1997 essay on Cela and the picaresque, he insists on the nature of the picaresque as a “generic notion,” “rather than a formal scheme, it is an institutionalized reference that functions in a differentiated manner in accordance with each of the actors in the literary historical system” (1997, 155). The distinction that he establishes between “authorial genre,” “reception genre,” and “critical genre” seems very useful, both conceptually and methodologically, to help us to put some order in the multiplicity and diversity of the use of the picaresque category to the multitude of works outlined in this analysis.

The picaresque model in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, on both sides of the Atlantic Once this expansion of the genre is accepted — as based on criticism, reception or authorship as well as the place and role that each of these instances plays in the literary system — there are a number of works considered picaresque in recent centuries, both in Spanish literature and in other literatures, geographies, and languages, which deserve to be considered next to the “traditional” corpus. In fact, the picaresque books and heroes of the Siglos de Oro, written in Castilian, quickly crossed the borders of both the Pyrenean mountains and the Atlantic sea, both in their original language and through different translations and adaptations to produce what Richard Bjornson (1977, 139) has called “transitions”: By the mid-1640s when the last picaresque novels were appearing in Spain, Lazarillo, Guzmán, El Buscón and other works in the tradition had already been translated into most of the major European languages, although in foreign contexts they would be variously presented as jest-books, language-instruction manuals, edifying tracts, comic novels, and criminal autobiographies.

Thus, appropriations, assimilations, transitions, adaptations — to local, social contexts — were giving birth to siblings, some more like children, others more like stepchildren, in a huge and varied family spread throughout Europe and America. The bibliography on this circulation is immense and, as could not fail to be the case, repetitive. Let us merely note the inevitability of finding, in any critical book on the expansion of the Spanish picaresque, references to German works such as Simplicissimus and Felix Krull, British works such as Moll Flanders and Roderick Random, and French works such as Gil Blas. And even much closer to us, one might ultimately

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century)187 consider the Belgian comic strip author Hergé, who made his globetrotting Tintin encounter revolutionary pícaros in a Latin American dictatorship in 1976. Not to mention the many other members of this family given to us by the cinema or the fine arts. Following this, one can observe some of these pícaros — all travellers — guiding us through the puertos (havens) where they were born or have arrived (to paraphrase Lázaro de Tormes), from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries up to the present. They are havens of various and varied lands, that many still call Iberia and Ibero-America, considering them, in the end, as a whole. A literary, transnational macro-system with regional particularities? By using examples from a Peninsular repertoire, we can see narrative demonstrations of one or several features which update the elements present in the so-called primary framework. I will focus around two structural elements: picaresque as wandering, on the one hand, and the picaresque as a way of narrating the city, on the other hand. From place to place, from house to house, from master to master, looking to feed their hunger, or for better living conditions, in search of los buenos (the good people) to provide support, like the little Lázaro had seen his mother do when she became a widow, “without husband and without shelter,” the pícaro shows the city, the polis — and politics of course — as well as their circumstances and the different social types who dwell there. It is therefore of interest to observe not only some identitarian elements of this Iberian genealogy, but also the various artistic manners in which the protagonists continue to the present day to reveal the cities to their narratees and readers. Cities which engender them (where they engender themselves) and where their lives, works, and days are spent. In the cases studied below, I also take into account the explicit allusions to the Golden Age picaresque novel in the body of the text, in advertisements and book covers, and in interviews given by the author. That is, everything in the text that contributes to the authorial legitimization of it being attributed to the genre. Let us start at the beginning, with The life of Lazarillo de Tormes, which is considered the founding work of the picaresque genre. Lazarillo de Tormes, protagonist and narrator, ends the Prologue dedicated to “vuestra merced” in 1554 by referring, in a self-reflective discourse, to “those who […], since Fortune was partial to them they […] have nothing to thank but their own labor and skill at the oars for bringing them in a safe harbor” (Merwin 2005, 5).1 In 1836, Lazaro was gloriously reborn in Paris, the city of the Seine (Tormes being the name of the river near which he was born), but now with a new function. Nothing less than being associated with the origins of the feuilleton, when Emile de Giradin’s La Presse and Monsieur Dutacq’s Le Siècle began to devote the central pages of their newspapers to serial fictional stories. Undoubtedly, its composition in sequential episodes, each with its own narrative autonomy and with a hero who rises up in each of the episodes as narrator and protagonist, perfectly fit a serial publication system where the story is to be continued. It also had all the potential to generate what would soon become characteristic elements in the serial: the creation of suspense and compassion. What would happen to the poor boy destitute of family, and hungry, in the next episode? Would he find the means to satisfy his hambre (hunger), his loyal and constant companion of each day? Could he find the bueno to support him — following his mother’s model, which had launched him on these arduous highways of life?

1.

“los que, siéndoles contraria [la Fortuna], con fuerza y maña remando salieron a buen puerto” (Anon. 2011, 11).

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Moreover, Tormes’ child had other serial attributes, among them an amusing form of speech which was also realistically aligned with a series of social types, true peinture de types, which would have been very much to the liking of the French readers of the feuilleton. Admittedly, not all of his literary descendants — those more or less strictly called pícaros — reached good port. But, from the beginning of the nineteenth century until the beginning of the twenty-first century, they have not stopped walking along the paths and through cities on both sides of the Atlantic, from Mexico and Rio de Janeiro to Barcelona, Lisbon, or Pontevedra. Rowing hard and astutely and with good fortune in their reading, they tell us of their wanderings and of the lands they went to, trying to stay on the side of their buenos, though not always using this fruitfully. I am referring here only to pícaros who speak Portuguese, Castilian, Catalan, Galician, Basque, Aragonese, Valencian, Mallorcan, or Extremaduran, leaving aside a whole multitude of pícaros who speak the other languages of Europe, not to mention also that their ancestors spoke in Arabic, Latin, or some Asian language. Indeed, to paraphrase the title of one of the latest books by Guillén, Múltiples Moradas (Multiple dwellings, 1998) — who, as we have seen, played a decisive role in the revolution regarding what has become the subject of picaresque genre studies since the early second half of the twentieth century — there are multiple dwellings for the pícaros, multiple languages, differences in the contrariness of fortune, and diversity in their lives and hungers. Ernesto Guerra Da Cal, who brilliantly and cohesively argued that A Relíquia (The relic) by the Portuguese writer Eça de Queirós is “a picaresque and Cervantesque novel,” wrote: “All the vital trajectory of the anti-hero [he is referring to the protagonist, the famous Teodorico Raposo and his ‘exemplary life’] is determined by the picaresque format. Only with the difference that the vital and primordial target of the protagonist is, rather than satisfying hunger, that of satisfying lust” (Guerra Da Cal 1971, 21). What then unites all these protagonists whom we invoke with only one and always the same name — the pícaro — throughout the ages and in all lands? In the cases which are presented below, some of these pícaros reappear in time and space, are rewritten and reinvented in different languages of the Iberian Peninsula. The criterion guiding their selection is, precisely, that of showing this geographical and linguistic diversity throughout the last two centuries. In the headings I shall note the name of the cities where the action takes place and the date of publication.

El Periquillo Sarniento (Mexico, 1816) About twenty years before Lázaro’s rebirth in Paris, on the other side of the Atlantic in the distant lands of Mexico, and in fully revolutionary spirit, José Joaquín Fernández de Lisardi had founded the newspaper El Pensador Mexicano (The Mexican thinker), which would exist for only two years (1812–14) but which, along with clearly supporting the revolución, published what would be considered by many, including the British historian of Spanish-American literature Jean Franco, as one of the first Spanish-American novels — El Periquillo Sarniento (The mangy parrot), and its author “the first Latin American novelist.” “Apart from Fernández de Lizardi,” Franco says, “there were no novelists as yet” (1994, 41). In a “Warning” to the second edition, the author tells his “curious reader” that it is important to keep in mind that the work had been written and printed in 1816, “under Spanish dominion,

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century)189 with the author seen badly by his Government though being a patriot, without freedom of the press, subject to the censorship of ombudsmen, canons, and friars” (Fernández de Lizardi 2008, 87). And, I emphasize, “worst of all, with the foolish and despotic Inquisition above” (2008, 87). With the words “My country, parents, birth, and early education,” he thus started his narration: I was born in the city of Mexico, the capital of North America, in New Spain. Never could my mouth sing sufficient praise in honor of my dear country; but since it is mine, such praise would be ever suspect. Those who live there, and the foreigners who have seen it, can give more believable panegyrics, for they are not constrained by partiality, whose magnifiyng lens can at times hide defects while enlarging the advantages of a country, even to those born there. Leaving, therefore, the description of Mexico to impartial observers, I will say: I was born in this rich and prosperous city between 1771 and 1773, to parents who were neither wealthy nor mired in poverty; who were pure of blood, a purity that gleamed and was better known for their virtuous behavior. Oh, if only children would always follow their parents’ good examples! (Fernández de Lizardi 2005, 1)2

The life and deeds of Periquillo Sarniento, “a life astray” — as told by himself to his children with “the sound intention” of serving as an example — still follows the canonical epistle and (pseudo-) autobiography, as inaugurated by El Lazarillo. But the picaresque model that the author invokes for the characters, situations, and language is explicitly that of Don Quixote and his language. With regard to the novel, a contemporary wrote that it was “a nonsensical work, extravagant and in bad taste; as a novel the tale was written in an ugly manner, with a barely-perceptible plan” because “the story started and met with rude actions” (quoted in Fernández de Lizardi 1842, xiii). Lizardi responded to this in an article published in numbers 487 and 488 of 12 and 15 February 1819 in the Noticioso general, “Apología del Periquillo Sarniento” (The apology for Periquillo Sarniento), addressed to the editor of the periodical. Replying directly to that particular critique, he starts, as he puts it, “borrowing, with your permission, from Don Quixote by Cervantes which is the masterpiece for this type of novel” (Fernández de Lizardi 1842, xiv). And in a note he also stated: “I don’t try to compare my work to that of the great Cervantes; all I’m doing is using his Quixote to defend my Periquillo” (1842, xviiin6). In fact, in the nineteenth century the picaresque was often related to the Cervantesque model, as we have just seen here. Whether because of this or not, faithfulness to the epistle and the pseudo-autobiography inaugurated by El Lazarillo (which was observed in Periquillo and present in the reactivation carried out by Cela with Pascual Duarte, who, however, made use of the “Cervantian found manuscript”) was not followed in the next book to be considered, nor in many others which appeared later and which literary historiography might consider as picaresque. There would indeed always be the wandering or journey, and the presence of a hero 2.

“Mi patria, padres, nacimiento y primera educación” / “Nací en México, capital de la América Septentrional, en la Nueva-España. Ningunos elogios serían bastantes en mi boca para dedicarlos a mi cara patria; pero, por serlo, ningunos más sospechosos. Los que la habitan y los extranjeros que la han visto, pueden hacer su panegírico más creíble, pues no tienen el estorbo de la parcialidad, cuyo lente de aumento puede a veces disfrazar los defectos, o poner en grande las ventajas de la patria aun a los mismos naturales; y así, dejando la descripción de México para los curiosos imparciales, digo: que nací en esta rica y populosa ciudad por los años de 1775, de unos padres no opulentos, pero no constituidos en la miseria; al mismo tiempo que eran de una limpia sangre, la hacían lucir y conocer por su virtud. ¡Oh, si siempre los hijos siguieran constantemente los buenos ejemplos de sus padres!” (Lizardi 2008, 106).

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more or less akin to the foundational pícaro. Regarding what may be called the Cervantesque picaresque model, let us once again quote from Guillén (1987, 5), who wrote in his aforementioned 1953 doctoral thesis: At its best, the anatomy partakes of the satirical power of Cervantes’s Rinconete y Cortadillo, where we recognize the most common roguish themes: the delinquent guild and slang, the praise of theft and the artistic dignity of crime. Instead of pointing out the roguery of legitimate society, the writer describes the respectable organization of a roguish community. Thus the anatomy implies elaborate ironies concerning social and moral values.

Memórias de um Sargento de Milícias (Rio de Janeiro, 1852–53) This is a third person narrative that begins by recounting the journey of an algibebe (who sells ready-made clothing) from Lisbon to Rio de Janeiro. Here, the algibebe becomes a bailiff after having become the progenitor of Leonardo. Leonardo will become the Sargento de Milícias (militia sergeant), after a “picaresque” itinerary which makes the reader pass through quite a few streets, houses, and the “trickery” (malandro in Brazilian studies of the picaresque corresponds exactly to the Spanish pícaro) of his life in Rio in the time and space of the capital of the kingdom of Portugal. Published in a serialized format, under the pseudonym of “Um Brasileiro” (A Brasilian), Memórias de um Sargento de Milícias appeared in the weekly supplement of the Correio Mercantil, “A Pacotilha” (The Deception) of Rio de Janeiro, between June 1852 and July 1853. Its author was Manuel António de Almeida. The title of Chapter 1 is a canonic picaresque incipit: “Origin, birth and baptism.” The father of Leonardo, the protagonist, is Leonardo Patacas: “His story contains little that is of note. Leonardo had been a clothes salesman in Lisbon, his homeland; he had got bored, closed the business, and came out to Brazil. Having arrived, and through whom nobody knows, he got the job that he made his own,” that is, as a “bailiff.” As for his mother: “She had come with him on the same ship, to do I know not what, a certain Maria da Hortaliça, a vegetable seller in Lisbon’s squares, a pretty, buxom country bumpkin.”3 The paths are almost always forced. Leonardo flees from a ferocious kick from his father or the police, taking him through the streets and houses of Rio de Janeiro. “It was in the time of the King” (João VI): so begins the novel. His godfather brings him up, gives him arrimo (support). But the boy has “a hard heart.” Reaching the good fellows — and after quite a few adventures — he becomes a militia sergeant. Mário M. González, studying the picaresque novel in Brazil, dedicates almost twenty pages of his book A saga do Anti-herói to an analysis of this Memórias. After using his own arguments to present and discuss the comments made by critics as prestigious as Francisco Ayala, Josué Montello, Alfredo Bossi, and Antônio Candido concerning whether Leonardo is a pícaro and 3.

“Sua história tem pouca coisa de notável. Fora Leonardo algibebe em Lisboa, sua pátria; aborrecera-se, porém do negócio e viera ao Brasil. Aqui chegado, não se sabe por protecção de quem, alcançou o emprego de que o vemos empossado” / “viera com ele no mesmo navio, não sei fazer o quê, uma certa Maria da Hortaliça, quintadeira das praças de Lisboa, saloia rechonchuda e bonitota” (Almeida 1986, 15).

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century)191 whether or not the novel is picaresque, he concludes that “without confusing Memórias de um Sargento de Milícias with a picaresque novel, it can be seen that by introducing the figure of the literary malandro into it, we have the beginning of the vindication of what was the pícaro” (1994, 289). Not by chance, Mário de Andrade, the author of Macunaíma, has been, it is believed, the first to relate Manuel António de Almeida’s character to the pícaro, increasingly considered as a brother in some way to the extremely rich series of Brazilian malandros. Arriving thus at the picaresque in Portuguese, but on American soil, it has to be asked whether something similar happened in Portugal, that is, if this picaresque genealogy that moved to the other side of the sea and from Castilian to Portuguese, found a home, or perhaps more pertinently, support (arrimo) in the non-Castilian parts of Iberia. We will try to answer this in the next point.

The pícaros in Portugal: From Camilo Castelo Branco until the present day In Portugal, literature does not seem to have produced any work contemporary with the Spanish picaresque canon. Nevertheless, instances of “contamination” multiplied in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Perhaps a partial explanation can be found in the hypothesis put forward by Cabo Aseguinolaza (2010, 46): “this so-called Peninsular literature was conceived of as essentially aristocratic and courtly. Literature of a more popular nature, such as the picaresque novel, would have been left out of this Peninsular communication, which was limited to the culture of the court.” The aforementioned The picaresque hero in European fiction does not consider Portuguese works. There are, however, at least two international reference studies, by Ulla Trullemans (1968) and Rebecca Catz (1978). Portuguese criticism has contributed other reference works, like Do Pícaro na Literatura Portuguesa by João Palma-Ferreira (1981) and Fernão Mendes Pinto ou a sátira picaresca da ideologia senhorial by António José Saraiva (1958). In fact, other works on the Peregrinação (The travels of Mendes Pinto, 1614) and also on works such as Arte de Furtar (The art of pilfering, 1652), O Diabinho da Mão Furada (The butter-fingered little devil, c. 1743), O Piolho Viajante (The travelling lice, 1802) and O Malhadinhas (The little huts, 1958) by Aquilino Ribeiro — works which, in one form or another, have come close to the Spanish picaresque — may guide us to aspects to be taken into account. In 1994, A. H. Ribeiro Gonçalves presented, in an MA thesis at Universidade Nova de Lisboa, an updated transcription of the editio princeps of O Desgraciado Amante (The wretched lover), by Gaspar Pires de Rebelo (in Novelas Exemplares, Lisbon, 1649–50), under the title Uma Novela Pícara Portuguesa (A Portuguese picaresque novel). I will bring together some observations made by Portuguese critics which appear most pertinent to the subject in question. It should be clear that with regard to the works which will be considered below, what is not at any time being considered — which has occupied other scholars — is whether or not there is a Portuguese pícaro. Jacinto do Prado Coelho in his Diccionário de Literatura also took into account the “picaresque.” In an article written by himself, he states: “Of Castilian ancestry, the picaresque novel narrates, generally in an autobiographical format, the wanderings and adventures of a wily and cynical servant, an astute observer of the weaknesses of the masters whom he serves.” What is

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more, he sees “modern echoes of the picaresque tradition,” amongst others, in O Trigo e o Joio (The wheat and the tares) by Fernando Namora, “where Vieirinha uses his qualities as a swindler amongst vagrants,” and the O Hóspede de Job (Job’s guest) by José Cardoso Pires (Prado Coelho 1976, 824–25). Without any doubt, the writer that led Portuguese literary historiography to consider the possibility of the existence of the genre in Portugal is Camilo Castelo Branco (1825–90), whose novels present stories set mainly in the north of the country. One of the most important critical voices of the second half of the twentieth century in Portugal, João Gaspar Simões, when dealing in his book with the work of Castelo Branco, the most important Romantic novelist, dedicates a special section which is entitled “The Camilian picaresque” (1987, 413–15). It is not important whether we agree or not in considering the characters specifically identified by Gaspar Simões as pícaros. What matters to this analysis is to see that the same characteristics — those which the critic sees in them — are considered by him as “picaresque,” according to a typology legitimized by a certain critical construction of the genre. In fact, among the major canonical authors of nineteenth-century Portuguese literature, Camilo Castelo Branco is possibly the most interesting case with regard to the picaresque, in spite of the draft of Memórias de João Coradinho (Memoirs of João Coradinho) by Almeida Garrett. I have no doubt that Camilo Castelo Branco was an interested and attentive reader of the picaresque. Good proof of this, among other items, is his annotations on a copy of Guzmán de Alfarache which belonged to him. Can one therefore integrate Camilo Castelo Branco’s Brazilians and also his torna-viagem (round trip) and his videirinhos (a type of “smart-alec”) within the genealogy of the pícaro? And his bandits? Certainly this is the case with regard to the torna-viagem linked to delinquency, as in O Cego de Landim (The blind man from Landim). After all, in romanticism, strictly speaking what fits better: the picaresque or banditry? What is the confluence between the two? Finally, the equivalence, which Simões suggests between pícaro, from a Spanish tradition, and marialva (an upper class ladies’ man), from a Portuguese tradition, should be underlined. Here, it is the author himself who is considered a pícaro. Regarding the “picarism” of Camilo Castelo Branco, Simões begins by stating that he “is a delayed picaresque novelist” (1987, 413). He sees the “picarism” of Camilo Castelo Branco in that which within his life “attracted him” to “corrosive satire and heavy pessimism,” “characters substantially within the picaresque genre,” he quotes from Samuel Gili Gaya, the Spanish scholar who acts somewhat as a guide. Gaspar Simões relates Camilo Castelo Branco to Lazarillo because of the cornadas (the gorings) that gave him life; furthermore, his novels are picaresque due to “the closed personal account of the narrator,” “the warm tone of the narrative,” “the rapid development of the narrative,” and “the simple fashioning of certain characters” (Simões 1987, 414–15). Finally, as to the “shape” of Camilo’s novels, they are also close to the picaresque through their “very brevity and swiftness of their action.” And what about the pícaro? Simões (1987, 415) considers “pícaro heroes strictly speaking,” in the novels of Camilo, villains such as José do Telhado, from Memórias do Cárcere and from Vida de José do Telhado, or João do Couto, from Degredado — if it is the case that one cannot categorize as picaresque the soulless individual from Doida do Candal. And even within his tyrannical parents there is something of the troubling violence of Lazarillos and Estebanillos González. Camilo feels like a sibling to them; he understands their tricks and reactions, cruelties and oppressions. The male cronies of his novels are mainly pícaros, or, if you prefer, marialva.

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century)193 Take, for example, João do Couto, the Degredado (extradited prisoner), who, after going from place to place fleeing justice, ends up in exile in Mozambique, and through repressing a native uprising in a cruel and bloody manner, is awarded a noble title and becomes a Knight of the Order of Christ. In the context of Camilo Branco’s work, he is a torna-viagem. Prado Coelho, in his aforementioned article, having already stated that in the Memórias do Cárcere (Memoirs of prison) Camilo Castelo Branco “draws shifty, roguish, and adventurous finished types” (1976, 824–25), identifies O Cego de Landim from As Novelas Do Minho (The Minho novels, 1875–77) as possibly being picaresque. Pinto Monteiro, another protagonist, who comes from Landim to Lisbon to embark for Rio de Janeiro from whence he will come back to die in his lands, is also an example of a torna-viagem. It should be noted that even the condition of desterrado (extradited) can lead to a critical consideration of this as being pícaro, which, it is believed, can be shown through the intrinsically wandering or, if we prefer, the migrant nature of this character. These are questions that will inevitably lead us to another fundamental question. Which characteristics, usually marked as belonging to their own genre, will guide us in a critical and historiographical reading? Let us recall some which have been repeatedly noted: the theme of poverty and hunger; the anti-heroic character of the pícaro; his social origin and birth; his leaning on the good; his wandering through different lands and with different masters; the criticism of customs; satire; and pseudo-autobiography. The topic of poverty and hunger leads us, at the end of the 1940s and after the Spanish Civil War and the Second World War, to neorealistic/social-realistic works. Suffice to remember in Spain the inaugural La familia de Pascual Duarte (The family of Pascual Duarte, 1942), classified as neo-picaresque, or, in Portugal, somewhat short narratives by Fernando Namora and José Cardoso Pires, as well as O Malhadinhas by Aquilino Ribeiro (1922), repeatedly acknowledged as being the great Portuguese picaresque novel of the twentieth century. Later I will focus on João Palma-Ferreira, who generates particular interest not only because of his critical and historical work on the picaresque but also because of his translation of El Buscón and his novel Vida e obras de Dom Gibão: opus milimetricum I (Life and works of Dom Gibão, n.d. [1987]). All this can testify to the vitality of this “reactivation” of the genre, and to that list can be added the novel Camilo Broca, published by Mário Claudio in 2006, whose “picarized” characters are precisely Camilo Castelo Branco and his father, living in Lisbon. Vida de Manolo contada per ell mateix (Barcelona, 1928) Other novels in the twentieth century take us to other cities and other languages. Before Camilo José Cela was to give us the life of Pascual Duarte, in Castilian — from his home in Extremadura, he would also travel to Madrid and Coruña, in order to set sail for the Americas — the great Catalan writer Josep Pla had published Vida de Manolo contada per ell mateix (Manolo’s life told by himself, 1928). Josep Pla gives us the life of the sculptor Manolo Hugué, in a book that, in the words of the introduction, he presents as reportatge (report). And what we get in reading this report is the long autobiographical narrative of the protagonist, who, at one point, informs the listenernarratee about his tale: “My life at that time was exclusively picaresque and I lived among people from another world.”4 A little before (at the start of Chapter 5) he had begun with these words: 4.

“La meva vida d’aleshores era exclusivamente picaresca i vivia entre gent d’un altre món” (Pla 1930, 70).

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Maria Fernanda de Abreu At the age of fourteen or fifteen, I fell into the scene of dissipation and of the most raging people of means of Barcelona, and if I could save myself from that world it’s something I’d find really difficult to explain. I was a pretty skinny boy, badly-dressed, with a hungry wolfish face and starving. After what I’ve told you, where do you expect me to end? I wanted, like the people of my time, to be a great man and, especially, a famous man… but I was as silly as a goose. Afterwards, I’ve been a famous man, but listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you: if celebrity isn’t enough to get you something to eat, you develop a never ending disgust for it.5

Recounting his life is undoubtedly one of the objectives of the tale. From his birth in 1872 until the present day of the celebrated sculptor, 1927, the year of the visit that Pla makes, and from his birth and its clandestine circumstances until this moment, a part of the report is devoted to his father, his mother, and to one of his grandmothers. Certain circumstances which, according to him, should make the addressee of the report easily understand that since his “first childhood I was willing to grow up anyhow, as a dog without a pack.”6 And he knows, or suspects: “But it’s likely that if my family circumstances had been different, if they had taught me anything, if I had had every day something to eat, things would have taken a very different path.”7 Another aim, of parallel importance, is also without any doubt to inform the reader about the city. Indeed, the question that is put to the interviewer is often about the city and not about him, qua protagonist. For example: “But — I ask you — at that time, in Barcelona, wasn’t there anything tolerable?”8 In fact, according to him: I was one of those boys who put people to shame. When I saw my family in the street, I slipped away at the first corner so I didn’t see them cry. I spent months out from home and, already as a youngster, I got completely out of the habit of sleeping there. At an early age I knew all the gambling dens, brothels, corners and spots of Barcelona. I frequented all the brave men. I was a bit of a wreck.9

Thus, the use of autobiographical narrative for someone who claims that his own life is or has been picaresque, at a given moment, is able to recount the life of the city; the life of picaresque people but also of a certain intellectual bohemia, who characterize the city. 5.

“A catorze o quinze anys vaig caure en l’ambient de la cràpula i de la gent del ferro més arrauxada de Barcelona i si em vaig poder salvar d’aquell món és una cosa que em seria ben difícil d’explicar. Era un xicot bastant fi, mal vestit, amb una cara de llop famolenc i una gana que m’alçava. Després del que us he contat, on voleu que anés a parar? Volia, com la gent del meu temps, ésser un gran home i, sobretot, un home cèlebre… però, era més buit que una carabassa. Després, he estat un home cèlebre, però, escolta bé el què et vaig a dir ara: si la celebritat no dóna per anar menjant és una cosa que fa un fàstic que no se acaba mai” (Pla 1930, 57).

6.

“la primera infantesa vaig estar predisposat a crèixer de qualsevol manera, com un gos sense colla” (Pla 1930, 28).

7.

“Però, és molt probable que si les meves circumstàncies familiares haguessin estat unes altres, que si m’haguessin ensenyat quelcom, que si hagués tingut cada dia alguna cosa per menjar, les coses haurien anat d’una manera molt diferent de com han anat” (Pla 1930, 33).

8. “—Però —li demano— en aquell moment, a Barcelona, non hi havia res que fos pasable?” (Pla 1930, 40). 9.

“Vaig ésser un d’aquelles xicots que fan caure la cara de vergonya. Quan veia pel carrer la meva família m’esquitllava per la primera cantonada per no veure’ls plorar. Passava mesos fora de casa i, ja de xaval, vaig perdre completamente el costum d’anar-hi a dormir. A cap edat coneixia totes les timbes, bordells, recons i reconets de Barcelona. Tractava a tots els valents. Era un pinta acabat” (Pla 1930, 29–30).

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century)195 La ciudad de los prodigios (Barcelona, 1986) Something similar can be found in the novel La ciudad de los prodigios (The city of marvels) that the Catalan Eduardo Mendoza published in 1986, which immediately announces itself on the back cover as being “one of the most personal and attractive titles to be found within Spanish contemporary novels.” It is also marketed with the suggestion that it is “a new and most singular occurrence of the picaresque novel,” “a satirical and ludic fantasy whose solid initial realistic basis does not rule out an absolutely free inventiveness.” When el muchacho (the kid) Onofre Bouvila arrives in Barcelona in 1888, the owner of the pension (the inn) where he is going to stay, upon arriving in town, warns him of the “clothes, patched up and crumpled, were none too clean — indicating that he had been on the road for several days in those same clothes, and that he had nothing else to wear, unless there was a change of clothes in the little bundle which he put on the reception desk when he came in;” and excuses him, for “he’s hungry, mixed up, and nervous.” He was looking for a job and he asks not to be asked anything more since “[h]is origins were a source of embarrassment to him” (Mendoza 1988, 5–6).10 Forty years later, Onofre Bouvila, who had started out by distributing anarchist leaflets to feed his hunger, is one of the richest men in the world having gone from a robber of hair growth products, which he then sells, to a thief of large fortunes, gunman, arms dealer during the war, and purchaser of governments: a picaresque journey socially and politically contextualized within the period. We can read this commentary from a review in the Library Journal: A modern picaresque tale that traces the meteoric rise of unscrupulous Onofre Bouvila from two-bit charlatan to movie mogul, culminating in his “marvellous” demise, Mendoza’s novel appears for the first time in a well-translated English version. This fanciful mesh of fantasy and history adroitly weaves its characters into the life of the titular city of Barcelona at the turn of the century between two world fairs. Though recently published in Spain (1986), where it was a best seller, the text resorts to the traditional narrative techniques of the chronicle, allowing the straightforward development of events to overshadow the cardboard delineation of characters. Despite the lack of surprises, general readers should enjoy. (Olszewski 1988, 110)

The protagonist’s perambulation through the city serves, at the same time, as a support to the narrative investment which, as much as telling the trajectory of his life and the people he meets, is also telling the history of the city. Significantly, the story starts: “Renovation fever was running high in the city the year Onofre Bouliva arrived in Barcelona” (Mendoza 1988, 1).11 The title of the novel also emphasizes the city and not the protagonist. His trajectory is inextricably linked to the “renewal” that the narrator strives for both in the search for the history of the city and in the account of the life of the main character, to the point where one could consider the novel as a historical novel. In fact, in a “Nota del Autor” (Author’s note) to a new edition, Mendoza points

10.

“ropa apedazada, hecha un rebujo y bastante sucia […] todo indicaba que había estado viajando varios días con ella puesta y que no tenía otra, salvo quizá una muda en el hatillo que había dejado sobre el mostrador al entrar” / “el hambre, el desconcierto y el miedo […] es casi un niño y está desesperado” / “su origen le resultaba vergonzoso” (Mendoza 1986, 12–13).

11.

“El año en que Onofre Bouvila llegó a Barcelona la ciudad estaba en plena fiebre de renovación” (Mendoza 1986, 9).

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out that his intention had been to “recuperate the image of a city which was mine, but from which I had been absent for a few crucial years.” Thus, he claims to join a tradition possessed by a set of novels, the target of which was “to provide a global vision of the evolution of this eccentric city through the individual adventures of a set of characters no less eccentric” (Mendoza 1999, 8–9). Likewise, the historical periods after the dictatorships of Franco and Salazar, in Spain and Portugal respectively, gave place to the use of the picaresque to establish literary representations of reality, both of life in these post-dictatorship times as well as those who lived through the dictatorship itself, unable to express themselves freely due to state censure. Cabo Aseguinolaza (1992) analyzes cases showing “a remarkable permanence” with this (new) neo-picaresque which has taken on the Transición, “as a historical reference of its plots,” comparing it to the neo-picaresque of the post Civil War (1936–39).

Vida e obras de Dom Gibão: opus milimetricum I (Venice, Rome, Barcelona, Lisbon, 1987) We find in Portugal a picaresque novel which has been created programmatically through the wishes of its author, João Palma-Ferreira, the same critic and literary historian who in 1981 published the study cited above, Do Pícaro na Literatura Portuguesa. Vida e obras de Dom Gibão: opus milimetricum I was published in 1987, and somewhat curiously published by the author. Should we therefore think that the author did not find any publishing house interested in publishing it? We should, for these reasons, consider that the texts found on the dust jacket and back cover were written by him. Apart from the title, unequivocally showing its genealogy, the picaresque reference is made explicit on the dust jacket: The life and works of Dom Gibão is a picaresque story, in line with the orthodox taste that established its former glories. The story seems to take place in the seventeenth century and is related by Dom Seara, a mild and playful, even jocular individual, who interprets the loose life of Dom Gibão, general of armies, wanderer, philosopher and what is revealed further on. (Palma-Ferreira n.d. [1987])

This paratext also invokes “the wise and experienced hand of the old Quevedo,” “master and patron” of the picaresque genre. And this “patronage” is reinforced in the epigraphs to the book, with no less than two quotes from the Spanish author of one of the founding novels of the genre, El Buscón. Neither, however, comes from his picaresque novel, but rather from his poetry. If the first is the statement that the writer “ha de decir lo que siente” (has to say what he feels), the second alerts the reader to the scale of the social and political critique of the state of the nation that orientated the author’s writing: “I looked at the walls of my country which, if they were mighty once, were now dilapidated, tired by the race of time” (Palma-Ferreira n.d. [1987], n.p.). Thus, the author appropriates not only the model of wandering and the adventures that characterized the genre in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but also the critical strategies that had made the genre one of the most effective areas for critiquing and transgressing the social and political order. In fact, the reader is also told on the cover that while the action appears to be taking place during the seventeenth century, “some say that the novel is just dealing with the satirical reality of our time of pícaros and vagrants, of people who, like any other, just live between nothing and everything.”

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century)197 Meanwhile, the author summarizes the “adventure” narrated in Vida e Obras de Dom Gibão, by pointing out the deambulatio with these words: “from the battle of Safurdão to the opulence of Venice, meeting along the way Algerian and Mohammedan graces and disgraces, through the philosophical depravity of Rome, through the policy intrigues of Catalunya, and the burnings at the stake of the Holy Inquisition.”12 The protagonist, a grammarian and philosopher of Lusitania, ends his days and works in Lisbon, burned in an “auto-da-fé” of the Inquisition. He is disguised sometimes as a Galician from Pontevedra, until he can no longer conceal his “nature” of having been born in Lusitânia, thus fulfilling a picaresque itinerary in which the issue of identity takes on an unusual prominence considering the repertoire within the genre. Crossing the Iberian Peninsula, through Alcalá, Salamanca, Coimbra, Seville, Barcelona — places consecrated by the picaresque canon of sixteenth and seventeenth centuries — and, page by page, with abundant footnotes, the writer notes the authors, characters, places, situations, phrases which make up the Golden Age picaresque repertoire, the full inheritance and lineage of which is explicitly documented here, not forgetting Cervantes and the reactivation of the genre in La Familia de Pascual Duarte. In 1988, as mentioned above, he published an annotated Portuguese translation of El Buscón.

Pícaros from Galicia and Portugal, at the end of twentieth century Let us end this picaresque-critical journey (with all the ambiguity of the term) through other lands and other languages, following the steps, lives, and deeds of two (possible) pícaros from Galicia. This time recounted in the third person, with no autobiography, whether true or false, and featuring one in Portuguese, the other in Galician. As such, respectively, Trabalhos e Paixões de Benito Prada. Galego da província de Ourense que veio a Portugal ganhar a vida (The works and passions of Benito Prada. Galician from the province of Ourense who comes to Portugal to earn a living) by Fernando Assis Pacheco (1993), and the history of “Pícaro Carnota,” in A memória do boi (Memoir of the ox, 2001), by Xosé Vázquez Pintor. Straightaway on the back cover of the novel by Assis Pacheco (a Portuguese writer with Galician family roots) the reader is told that in order to narrate the works and passions of Benito Prada, the author remembers “the old picaresque, learning from the classics of the genre,” and “offers us an exemplary novel, where history is transformed into story.” In fact, telling the life of this Galician from the province of Ourense who goes to Portugal to earn a living a few years after Spain had become smaller due to “the disaster of Cuba, which was also the case with Puerto Rico and the Philippines” is the path chosen by the author to tell the political history and paint a critical political portrait of both Galicia and Spain. To paint as well a portrait of “Galicia, poorer than most of the other lands of Spain,”13 the origin of his protagonist and his parents, and also

12.

“Da batalha de Safurdão às opulências de Veneza, passando pelas graças e desgraças argelinas e maometanas, pelas depravações filosóficas de Roma, pelas políticas da Catalunha e , finalmente, pelas fogueirinhas da Inquisição” (Palma-Ferrreira [1987], back cover).

13.

“o desastre de Cuba, que também foi de Porto Rico e das Filipinas […] a Galiza mais pobre do que a maior parte das terras de España” (Pacheco 1993, 17).

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many details about this Portugal where he will earn (and earn very well) his living. Benito, who settles in the city of Coimbra, is, as also mentioned on the back cover, as “still alive in 1949 when Generalísimo Franco comes to the University of Coimbra to receive an honoris causa PhD in Law.”14 Thus, this Iberian Peninsula in the first half of the twentieth century, poor, victim of a lacerating Civil War, dictatorship, and isolation, is also one of the main subjects of the tale. Benito may not have “delinquent” behavior, as canonical pícaros have, nor is he the object of satire on the part of his narrator; thus, apart from the note on the back cover, the reader may not be aware of the picaresque genre and read it just as an “emigration novel.” But there is no doubt that many of the narrative procedures and the thematic repertoire of the picaresque genre are “remembered” here by the author. The question we then may put, and that may lead to interesting paths, both on the historical and literary as well as the analytical and the sociological level, is to what extent the picaresque and the emigration narrative converge. (This question is also useful for a typology not only of much of the narrative of our days but also of the nineteenth century, for example, the aforementioned work by Castelo Branco.) Very different is the story of “Pícaro Carnota,” one of the heroes of the tales in A memoria do boi. As stated by the title and name: Pícaro. Extremely poignant. Concentrated, with no way out, told in five brief pages. A narrative-poem or elegy. His life is made up of these brief five pages, from birth until death. Just as happened in Quevedo’s unforgettable sonnet, proclaiming without euphemisims “the miseries of the life,” La vida empieza en lágrimas y caca (Life begins with boos and poos), it is, from the beginning, heart-rending: Pícaro Carnota leaves his mother’s womb on February 7th, on a crescent moon. He is a difficult child who can’t be taught to breast feed, transmutes his crying into laughter, never suckles his mother’s nipple and drinks his milk from Gallarda, the cow who feeds four houses in Boapedre, the four of them forming in line in the oven street.15

At the incipit of the book, the old times are remembered, hunger times: “at the age of hunger, when there wasn’t any milk in the stalls.”16 The ox memory will give us that time and a certain representation of the city of Pontevedra, here named Boapedre: “Boapedre was convincing herself that it was still posible to keep growing in new people.”17 This is also a certain representation of the pícaros versus the señoritos, the low versus the high. Grown up, Pícaro Carnota will try not to follow “the instinct of escape, rebelliousness, insubmission.”18 Also he, with his ancestors of the genre, will travel through other places with, at any moment, the temptation to arrimarse a los buenos. “Mother doesn’t know how to pray anymore. The pícaro changes his habits and travels through the cities of the universe, which is

14.

“está ainda vivo em 1949 quando o generalíssimo Franco vem à Universidade de Coimbra receber o título de doutor honoris causa em Direito” (Pacheco 1993, back cover).

15.

“Pícaro Carnota sae do ventre da nai un sete de febreiro, a lúa en medras. É fillo difícil que non colle enseño, trasmuda o pranto en risallada, non agarra nunca a teta e bebe o leite da Gallarda, a vaca que dá alimento para catro casas de Boapedre, as catro en fileira na rua dos fornos” (Vázquez Pintor 2001, 55).

16.

“cando eran os tempos da fame e non había leite nos cochos” (Vázquez Pintor 2001, 16).

17.

“Boapedre estábase a convencer a si mesma de que era aínda posible seguir medrando en nova xente” (Vázquez Pintor 2001, 39).

18.

“o instinto da fuxida, da rebeldía, da insubmisión” (Vázquez Pintor 2001, 57).

The picaresque in Iberia and America (nineteenth to twentieth century)199 Galicia […]. Years never pass in vain for the pícaros and now Carnota is Don Carmelo Vieira.”19 But he once again becomes Carnota. There is no arrival at a safe haven for him. Just as there was not for Pascual Duarte. Why is it that it was not possible for the pícaros, those who were born at certain times and places in the Iberian Peninsula, “to have [Fortune] in their favor” and “to row hard and astutely” to reach “a safe haven”?

Final remarks I hope that the works presented here serve as proof for the words of Guillén (1971) cited above: the publication of so many narratives, and which, up to the present day, contain characters of a somewhat picaresque nature, show that to see the picaresque as a mere literary event from the past is pedantic and erroneous. Meyer-Minnemann (2008, 13–40) states that “proposals abound to define the picaresque novel genre,” and then summarizes and gives his opinion on some of the most important contributions in this field, and ends by considering that “the figure of the pícaro” and his “life’s trajectory” form the fundamental essence of the content of the genre. Without both the picaresque does not exist, he states. Certainly, and also in accordance with this study, we have to take into account the semantic variations and evolution of the word pícaro. All the cases that we have just studied here do not, however, meet the other requirement mentioned in this proposal, namely that “in terms of genre expression” this is “fictional autobiography.” But, in all cases, it is the authors themselves, or their protagonist, as is the case with Josep Pla, who classifies their novels and their vital trajectory as being “picaresque.” At last, and taking all the above into consideration, one has to ask how one should deal with the permanence of this character which has been portrayed so many times across different periods, lands, and languages, at a critical and historical level in terms of its unity and its diversity all over the Iberian Peninsula and America, wherever writers write in Iberian languages? Is it that this genre, once labelled picaresque, has such versatility that, once it has reached a specific time and region, it converts itself into one of the richest and truest modes, almost always painful, of recounting those lands and those times, with their peoples and through their peoples? How should we confront this deeply rooted constancy at the ethical and human level? What is more, the picaresque provides the fields of theories of literary historiography and comparative literary studies with one of the most fascinating repertoires to observe, conceptualize, and subsequently historically systematize.

19.

“Nai xa non sabe rezar mais. O pícaro muda os hábitos e viaxa polas cidades do universo, que é Galicia. […] Os anos nunca pasan de baleiro para os pícaros e arestora Carnota é don Carmelo Vieira […]. Casou feliz” (Vázquez Pintor 2001, 57).

Religious and literary canons Interferences and dissociations (sixteenth to eighteenth century) Zulmira C. Santos Keeping in mind that “a sacralized mental universe corresponds, with notably rare exceptions, to a sacralized literature” (T. Egido 1996, 739), I will assume that, even with all the differences introduced by some of the literary production of the eighteenth century, I will have to consider the interferences more than the dissociations in the literary field of the modern age (Rozzo 1994). In fact, it is not only religious and spiritual literature — on the Iberian Peninsula and in the modern age — that raises pertinent questions of definition and identity. The universe of what constitutes literature, as it can be nowadays understood, was perfectly unlimited in the centuries in question, when “the religious” invaded virtually all the so-called “literary” fields. This makes it difficult or nearly impossible to identify that production accurately. The universe of poetic texts at the time is inextricably intertwined with comments regarding biblical passages, mainly with paraphrases of psalms, religious couplets, and atonement (Núñez Ribera 2010), as a means of reflecting and commenting on biblical texts when they were difficult to access — Luis de Léon (1527–91), Juan de la Cruz (1542–91) or Teresa de Jesús (1515–82) — but also the “Psalms” of Lope de Vega and Quevedo. It would have, then, to be decided to what extent there are interferences with some prose of fiction and some hagiographic accounts (Gómez Moreno 2008) with regard to character construction, the status of their protagonists, or even the range of “virtues” under consideration. Evidently, the preferred types of catechistic, the devotional and the educational, the so-called pastoral or ad parochos literature — of which the widely known Directorium (1566), by Pere Mártir Coma, directed to the Catalan rural clergy could be set as an example — often appear in the three abovementioned types, directed towards the clergy in general. Such productions were used during the course of study, or afterwards, to correctly carry out their duties, and they represent a considerable resource. Their importance can be measured by studying parochial and conventual libraries (J. A. de F. Carvalho 1998, Hernández González 1998, Guijarro Ceballos 1998). They must be acknowledged as indicative of the relevance of a moralizing and catechistic literature, which served as a vehicle of communication within the movements of reformation and spiritual renewal, mainly in the wake of the normative orientations of the Council of Trent. The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries saw an increase in literary production, making it more diverse and important in the context of publishing at the time. Concerning the modern age in Iberia — the reform of the monastic orders and the training of the clergy; the pastoral, missionary, and educational activity (Infantes & Martínez Pereira 2003); the focus on some tendencies (trends, concerns with the organization of the inner life) — each displayed a certain devotional and social “discipline” (Prosperi 1994a & 1994b, Knox 1994) that emphasized the spiritual direction (Costa 2014) and the importance of the internal reforms of Christianity. These actions justified and legitimized the constant interference between the religious and the literary field. This interference spanned all registers of discourse: fictional prose, from chivalry books to “shepherd’s books”; pastoral novels, mainly in the “divine” versions; sentimental novels, Byzantine and allegorical sentimental novels, with their diegesis often caused by travel or pilgrimage; and doi 10.1075/chlel.29.18san © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Religious and literary canons201 theatre, through the different representations of religious character that occurred throughout the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. Virtually, all the production of the arbitrista (seventeenth-century reformers) character suffered this sort of interference, even the ones in which their reflections are almost exclusively political in nature, moving towards the creation of a Catholic monarchy. Even though the Spanish production is, naturally, more representative than the Portuguese, there seem to be no differences either in textual typology or in interferences between the fields of literature and religion. Though it may be difficult and it may even betray the manifold and ambiguous nature of the majority of these texts — just like all kinds of typology — it is worthwhile to investigate more thoroughly in order to divide them, methodologically speaking. This division will facilitate the organization within this publishing framework of the religious text as a representation of these centuries. These texts include controversial literature — often written in Latin (Fragnito 2005) — the various synod constitutions, the decrees and the Council of Trent, the rules and chronicles of different religious orders, treaties regarding indulgences, works, hagiographies, catechisms, praying manuals, mystic literature. Aside from this clearly “religious” textual production, there is a vast stock of works on the Iberian Peninsula (understandably more widely represented in Spain than in Portugal) in which the interference between the religious and the literary field becomes quite evident and stands out as one of the most important characteristics of written production of the Iberian Peninsula in the modern age. Such works, which do not directly reveal a discourse of normative character, reflect the cyclopean effort to mold behavior that aimed to encompass and intervene in all aspects of Christian life. Given the impossibility of noting all literary works — the “religious” book had considerable weight among the printed works in the Iberian Peninsula from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries — I will draw attention to fundamental models and thematic nuclei which show the interference between the so-called “literary” field and the time that encloses the text production regarding the conciliation between prodesse and delectare. However, there are differences between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries, and the importance of many of these notions varied throughout this period of time.

Prayer books Prayer books and devotionals (Zarri 2009) were widespread throughout the modern age across the Iberian Peninsula. The establishment of the Jesuits in Portugal (1540) and Spain, and the increase in knowledge and practice of Ignatius of Loyola’s Exercicios espirituales (Spiritual exercises), may have decisively contributed to a revitalized movement of prayer forms. The movement, however, owes much to followers of recogimento (meditation). Moreover, there are several works in which prayer is the fundamental theme, demonstrating the importance of general prayer and particularly of mental prayer, with diversified devotional guidelines. Actually, in the vast field of general, vocal, and mental prayer, even in its highest or most mythical manifestations, there is a large set of works, beyond famous names such as Luis de Granada, Luis de Montoya, or Pedro de Alcântara, or even Teresa of Ávila (A. Egido 2010). This shows the importance of this topic, which, throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, also merges with prose fiction on different models of “pastors’ books,” and of “divine” poetry (Núñez Ribera 2010). Examples include works such as: Pedro de Alcântara, Tratado de la oración y meditación (Treatise on prayer

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and meditation, 1563); Luis de Granada, El libro de la oración y meditación (The book of prayer and meditation, 1554), Introducción del símbolo de la fe (Introduction to the symbol of the faith, 1583), Luis de la Puente, Guía Espiritual (Spiritual guide, 1609), and Tomás Villanueva, Modo breve de servir a Nuestro Señor (Brief way to serve our lord, 1545). The importance of prayer in Portugal is also present in works such as Livro de Doctrina Espiritual (Book of spiritual doctrine, 1564), assembled by Francisco de Sousa Tavares, or Arte de Orar (Art of prayer, 1630) by the Jesuit Diogo Monteiro. Some works, such as in Trabalhos de Jesus (Deeds of Jesus, 1603) by Tomé de Jesus, which resumes the basic concepts of the Exercicios, represent a systematized elaboration of the significance of mental prayer, as a consequence of Ignatius of Loyola’s lessons. These concepts were also learned from Luis de Granada’s lessons and were still being followed throughout the eighteenth century (J. A. de F. Carvalho & Belchior 1994, Rodrigues 1988), despite the differentiated linguistic form. During the seventeenth century, this type of devotional literature had continuity thanks to works such as Diego Castejón y Fonseca’s Discursos breves de los tres caminos de la oracion mental (Short discourses about the three paths of the mental prayer, 1651), or other books that, in spite of not being directly prayer-oriented, had prayer as a fundamental theme. In the course of the eighteenth century, the use of devotionals (responsible for the popularity of many practices, some promoting “new” devotions, such as the Sacred Heart of Jesus, others following devotions to Mary, Joseph, and the souls in the purgatory) becomes impossible to quantify, in light of the data available and the lack of urgent investigation. In fact, the importance of prayer in time may be found, among many others, in the work of Gregorio Mayans y Síscar (T. Egido 1996), a scholar who was a follower of a new “good trend,” and who dedicated El orador cristiano (The christian preacher, 1733) to sacred oratory. Let us also remember, as a mark of the interference between the “literary” and “religious” canons, Juan de la Cruz (Subida al Monte Carmelo, Noche oscura del alma, Cántico espiritual y Llama de amor viva [Ascent of Mount Carmel, The dark night of the soul, Spiritual canticle, The living flame of love]), Luis de Léon (Exposición del Cantar de los cantares, Exposición del Libro de Job, De los nombres de Cristo [Explanation of the Canticle of Canticles, Explanation of the Book of Job, The names of Christ]), Teresa of Ávila (Camino de perfección, Las moradas [The way of perfection, The mansions]), or Agostinho de Cruz (1540–1619), all of whom were concerned with ways to praise God, singing not only the unspeakable, but also reliving the different moments of the life of Jesus Christ (his sufferings and something fundamental in the poetic production from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, in the Iberian Peninsula). However, one must carefully consider using concepts that made sense in the Middle and Early Modern Ages and are now mostly odd, but which were a part of such poetic production, understood not only by religious authors strictu sensu — even after the eighteenth century. In fact, the life “history” of Jesus Christ or the Virgin Mary became not only poetic topics, but also a main theme for works which sought to diffuse behavior models, often as an alternative to courtly prose fiction: Melchor de Castro, Historia de la Virgen Maria (History of the Virgin, 1607); Antonio Hurtado de Mendoza, Vida de Nuestra Señora María Santíssima (Life of our Holy Lady Mary, c. 1650); the famous and controversial María de Jesús de Agreda’s Mystica Ciudad de Dios (Mystical city of God, 1670); Cristóbal Fonseca’s Primera parte de la Vida de Christo Señor Nuestro (First part of the life of Christ our Lord, 1596); Thomás de Guzmán’s Segunda parte de la Vida de Christo Señor Nuestro (Second part of the life of Christ our Lord, 1601), Tercera parte de la vida de Christo Señor Nuestro (Third part

Religious and literary canons203 of the life of Christ our Lord, 1605), and Quarta parte de la Vida de Christo Señor Nuestro (Fourth part of the life of Christ our Lord, 1611); Fernando de Valverde’s Vida de Iesv Cristo Nvestro Señor (Life of Jesus Christ our Lord, 1657). Many of these models, along with general hagiography, from the several Flos Sanctorum (Lives of saints) to the vast lode represented by the lives of saints, revered people, men and women “distinguished by virtue,” (P. C. Mendes 2012, Santos, 2013, P. A. Mendes 2013) could be understood as alternate reading propositions to the different novel types. They would likely have been created alongside the poetic production which paraphrased and commented on passages of the Scripture, the field in which the “contamination” between the “literary” and the “religious” became more evident, even if such description would not have made any sense at that time. Globally speaking, regarding diegetic organization, there are no differences between Pedro de Ribadeneira’s narratives, in his highly publicized Flos Sanctorum, or the chivalry books and the courtly novels of the sixteenth century. The lives of saints often look like adventure stories, seeking to educate the reader, but trying not to ignore the dimension of “delight,” concerning the importance given, many times in non-identical amounts, to probability and varietas. Within the enormous body of works located in the interference between the “religious” and the “literary,” we need to underline works that aspire more directly to provide their readers with paradigms of religious, spiritual, and moral behavior, looking to aim at a broader audience (Zarri 2008). They provide actual “arts of life and for well living” behavior grids, which seek to encompass and mold all the behaviors of a Christian, a tactic common to all religious texts. Many of the texts that have been mentioned already — some more than others — explicitly allude to the qualities and virtues that were considered necessary for the faithful: prelates, friars, and anyone who would consider himself religious. The idea that perfection is possible in all states of life is publicized by several works, from wedding treatises, which provide conjugal perfection models — De officio mariti (On a husband’s duties, 1529) by Luis Vives or La perfecta casada (The perfect wife, 1583) by Luis de León, Espelho de Casados (Mirror for married couples, 1540) by João de Barros — to widowhood or raising children (Antonio Arbiol’s La familia regulada [Rules for the family], 1715). Serving as vehicles of “discipline” (Prodi 1994, Prosperi 1994a & 1994b) and aiming to surround the life of a Christian in as many situations as possible, these texts have the same nature as the manuals of “civilization,” reproducing and rephrasing ideas of antiquity, in a problematic osmosis with models of monastic origin, by “Christianizing” and gradually replacing them, mainly during the middle of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In this context, they articulate the “reformation of the Christian,” disciplining soul and word (Prosperi 1994a & 1994b) through the correct management of word and silence: Francisco Ledesma, Documentos de criança (Documents of education, 1599); Luis Milán, Libro intitulado el Cortesano (Book titled the courtier, 1561); Lorenzo Palmireno, El estudioso cortesano (The scholar courtier, 1573); Alonso Jerónimo de Salas Barbadillo, El Cavallero perfecto (The perfect gentleman, 1620). In Portugal, there are many works that, mostly throughout the seventeenth century, sought to provide perfect behavior models from a spiritual and religious point of view: Desejos do céu (Desires of heaven, 1694) by the Cistercian monk Fradique Espínola; the various proposals of Manuel Bernardes, who made a virtual compendium of all the topics discussed by the literature of spirituality of the seventeenth century in Luz e calor (Light and heat, 1696), Armas da castidade (Weapons of chastity, 1699), Pão partido em pequeninos (Broken bread in little pieces, 1696); João Baptista de Castro, Aflição confortada dirigida à virtude da paciência (Comforted affliction directed to the virtue of patience, 1738); and the enormous publishing success of Mestre

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da Vida que ensina a viver e a morrer santamente (Master of life who teaches to live and die in holiness, 1731) by the Dominican João Franco (M. O. da C. Loureiro 1994a & 1994b). While also contributing to other areas, there are texts, such as the various novelas (stories), whose influence, either in translation or in their original language, lasts throughout the seventeenth century. These texts share the preoccupations and aims of this moralizing literature, attempting to mould the behaviour of their readers. From this point of view, the different hagiologies and martyrologies, so widely known in the seventeenth century, also proposed model behaviors which often came across through the protagonists of the different novels they were in, offering the readers diversified behavior patterns.

Artes moriendi In this vast lode of religious literature and spirituality over the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries, the artes bene moriendi (art of dying well), and the pamphlets and manuals Sylva locorum communium (Forest of commonplaces), which were extensively used in sermons, are also important. These works are supported by the complex relationship between Latin and the vernacular, since a considerable number of authors make frequent use of both registers, in a movement that spreads out but at the same time preserves reading circles — bearing in mind the different “confessor’s manuals” (M. de L. C. Fernandes 1990, 1991, 1994 & 1995). The artes bene moriendi were, apparently, published frequently. They also represent an interesting case among this kind of literature, which, by primarily aiming at the clergy with their healing-the-souls approach, aspires to reach various strata of the population as well. In Spain, many were circulating, especially Alejo Venegas, Agonía del tránsito de la muerte (Agony of the transit of the death, 1540); Martín Pérez de Ayala, Avisos de bien morir (Warnings to die well, 1552); Jaime Montañés, Espejo y arte muy breve y provechosa para ayudar a bien morir en el incierto dia y hora de la muerte (Mirror and brief and useful art to help to die well in the uncertain day and hour of the death, 1565); Francisco de Ávila, Recreación del alma (Recreation of the soul, 1572); Alfonso de Andrada, Lecciones de bien morir y iornadas para la eternidade (Lessons to die well and journeys to the eternity, 1662); Gaspar de Avilés, Muerte Cristiana y avisos para bien morir (Christian death and warnings to die well, 1603); Bartolomé Cucala, Tratado para ayudar a bien morir (Treatise to help to die well, 1548); Miguel Guerra, Modo de ayudar a bien morir (Mode to help to die well, 1604); Pedro de la Fuente, Breve compendio para ayudar a bien morir (Short compendium to help to die well, 1640); Pedro Espinosa, Arte de bien morir (Art to die well, 1651); Pedro de Navarra, Diálogos de la preparación de la muerte (Preparation dialogues for the death, 1567); Juan Eusebio de Nieremberg, Partida a la eternidad y preparación para la muerte (Departure for eternity and preparation for death, 1643), Luis de la Puente, Práctica de ayudar a bien morir (Practice to help to die well, 1636). In the Basque country, Jean de Tartas’s Onsa hilceo bidia (Way for dying well, 1666) was also famous. In Portugal, one of the most popular of these manuals, in versions that were not necessarily concurrent, O Breve aparelho e modo facil para ajudar a bem morrer um cristão (Brief preparation and easy way to help a Christian to die well, 1621), by the Jesuit Estevão de Castro, targets a priest or person that needs to be helped to die well. It also requests that priest or person to carry the book with him at all times. However, there were others with identical orientations, such as: O manual da alma (Manual of the soul, 1644) by António Pimentel, or Chave do Paraíso (Key

Religious and literary canons205 to paradise, 1697) by Fradique Espínola. Works like Alívio das doenças e disposição para uma preciosa morte (Relief of illness and provision for a precious death, 1691) by Fernando da Cruz dedicate special attention — as the title already implies — to those who are confined to their beds by long-term illness, circumstances that allow the possibility to prepare an appropriate death, denied to those to whom death comes unexpectedly. There are many other texts to consider from a time when, even in the eighteenth century, religion was ubiquitous in the Iberian Peninsula. Considering interferences and dissociations, one cannot ignore the ongoing controversy throughout the Enlightenment Age around biblical texts (Delpiano 2007), the Jansenist controversy, or, obviously, the weight of sermons — one of the fields of “contamination” between the “religious” and the “literary” par excellence. One has to bear in mind that, given the audience, the speaker would make an effort to try to catch the listeners, through admiration or amazement or, in more “enlightened” times, by clear argumentation. The lecture, very similar to theatre in its spectacular dimension, has been subjected to many codifications during the Modern Age. Luis de Granada’s praedicandi artes (preaching manuals), among others, show this preoccupation with addressees and the importance of preaching in the diffusion of spiritual and religious messages. Within the scope of the itineraries of religious and spiritual literature of this period, there is still a need to discuss, apart from the very brief overview provided here, how much scientific diffusion into broader readership circles owes to the religious framework, above all in the second half of the eighteenth century. Many “scientific” texts pervade social strata “at the expense of ” religion. We also need to consider the relative importance of the apologetic books (Gr. S. Dias & Dias 1986, J. E. Pereira 1987, Santos 2002), which aspired to confront the Enlightenment on its own grounds — armed with reason. Additionally, it would also be intriguing to put an emphasis on the apparently vast circulation of devotional literature (Carvalho 2013) consisting of booklets, leaflets, flyers, and stamps aimed at extensive strata of the public, which had increased in publishing activity by the time of the Enlightenment.

The historical novel Maria de Fátima Marinho The situation that had arisen in the nineteenth century as a result of the socio-political upheaval caused by the French Revolution, and also by the imperialistic designs of Napoleon, favored the emergence of literary genres abounding with ideology and convictions. Undoubtedly, genre can thus be said to be closely linked to the underlying cultural reality (Miller 1994, 69) and attempts to respond to its demands. Catherine F. Schryer (1994, 108) remarks on the conditioning that the genre imposes on the user and the reciprocal influence, both ideological and behavioral, that the user imposes upon the genre. Thus, as Anne Friedman (1994, 63) states, the choice of genre implies above all understanding and interiorizing its inherent rules. It is therefore understandable that the eighteenth century, hesitating still between concern for the truth and concern for morality, as Celia Fernández Prieto (1998, 67) notes, did not succeed in transmitting the notion of difference between epochs, although there was already an obvious move towards inclusion of elements which clearly indicated a real sense of awareness of evolution, with its accompanying change. The social upheaval which occurred after 1789 favored the rise of a bourgeois culture which found in the novel its favorite genre, as it was easier to read and had more obvious connections to the lives of potential readers. The fall of absolute monarchies resulting from the Napoleonic invasions, the appearance of Liberalism and the rise of an urban culture, together with technological progress, were responsible for an increased interest in history, which began to be considered a science, as different as possible from the improbable, acritical legends that circulated at the time. The ambiguity concerning the action of the French (attraction for the regime resulting from the revolution and repulsion for the military occupation) was fertile ground for the appearance of a type of text whose aim was to acclaim or discover national values, which were at times hidden or dormant. It was not by chance that the fashion begun by Walter Scott in 1814, with the publication of Waverly, became so popular in various European countries, taking on an importance that cannot be ignored. The conviction that the past was essential for understanding the society of the present led intellectuals to include the discourse of history in their novels, with two distinct but complementary aims: to make the facts about the past known to the general public and, through the past, to show the failures and successes of a particular moment, in order for it to serve as an example to be followed, or not. European culture thus aimed to reconvert its origins, making them known to all, turning them into stories, in an attempt to make them more attractive and simpler. The Iberian Peninsula was no exception with regard to this phenomenon, attempting to adapt the ingredients of the genre to the respective national realities, although inevitably unable to escape from romantic features in the creation of characters and backgrounds. Indeed, from the beginning, one of the criticisms aimed at romantic novels was that they were incoherent, because of the obvious lack of consistency between the environment supposedly created and the behaviors and reactions of the characters in question. There is no early nineteenth-century historical novel that does not excel in detailed descriptions of places, costumes, and political moments but which, on the other doi 10.1075/chlel.29.19mar © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

The historical novel207 hand, does not include essentially romantic characters, who accentuate the typical features of novels of the time with no desire for reconstruction of the past. Aware of these limitations, we will try to understand how the structure of this genre, which became known as the historical novel, took on characteristics of its own, even though it is generally agreed that in linguistic terms and in terms of plot, the historical novel is indistinguishable from other novels of the time. As Pío Baroja said, almost a century later, “Everything is repeated in life and in literature” (1948, 4:984), which shows the exact measure of similarity within difference — in other words, the universal relativity of genres, eras, and trends. There have been many attempts to define the historical novel, but in general they are all based on recourse to what is real and its representation, and on the temporal distance between the writing and that of the diegesis. As we will have occasion to demonstrate, ambiguity, either deliberate or arising from implicit awareness, which do not always coincide, is the basis for the varying techniques of romantic authors, whose aim was to reconstruct the past, making it apparently true and believable. The inability to do this led to a different view of the literary phenomenon as a potential transmitter of factual, concrete, verifiable data. We are led to question the process of writing the truth or of its outright rejection by the certainty that it is, in the words of Rosa Maria Martelo, “the ability to re-describe the world” (1998, 33) which is at stake, and that we can only accept “refereniality as an effective connection between the text and the world, which does not imply the notion of mimesis as a copy or representation of a world which in some way preceded the text” (Martelo 1998, 52). In order for us to understand what led to the development of alternative history, which deliberately disregards well-known and irrefutable historical facts, or the emergence of the double or the mask between the past and the present, we must understand how the search for truth became an obsession with certain authors and certain types of text. Barbara Foley (1986, 67–68) defends the idea that the reader recognizes analogies between the text and the world which surrounds him/her, although she recognizes the inevitable fictionality inherent to reality, which would lead to the predominance of “lies” over “facts” (Foley 1986, 10). We know, however, that this limited view is in no way fully acceptable today (Martelo 1998, 57), and the notion that mimesis cannot be considered a true copy is gaining ground (Martelo 1998, 42), since it is quite clear that, through writing, versions are constructed in which facts cannot be disassociated from their construction (Martelo 1998, 65). If we think now in terms of insertion of the past, it is not difficult to defend the idea that this should mainly satisfy the demands of a particular culture (Ommundsen 1993, 51), and should not overlook the fact that what is real is not always of interest to history, but rather is just one of its possible representations. The lack of concurrence between representation (or truth as representation), and reference (Lopes 1994, 86) leads us to understand in different ways the desperate attempts to make representation and easily identifiable referents identical. It was, however, in the nineteenth century that more importance was given to the inclusion of the truth and to the constant obsessive demands for its faithful representation without recourse to storytelling, which turned into important discursive data. Allusion to imaginary manuscripts that the authors were said to have discovered, but which they merely revised and published, the mysterious appearance of diaries or the inclusion of details about the family history of the characters, all competed in creating the illusion of truth that aroused in the reader a

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greater desire to read. In the case of the historical novel, these claims to truth took on a different character as they included all the features already described but in an attempt to faithfully recreate history. The lack of impartiality which is inherent to any recreation of the past, and indeed of the present, brings to the fore the discussion about the notion of truth that Silvina Rodrigues Lopes puts in the following way: “Once we reject the idealistic vision of truth as correspondence, together with positivist, criterial rationality, the truth begins to be seen as the ideal result of our research for better conceptions of reality” (1994, 87). If we accept that literature does indeed have a privileged relationship with the reality of the present (Lopes 1994, 139), we must accept that it is at the same time both easy and difficult to try to define the dangerous, ambiguous and fascinating place of the historical novel (Vanoosthuyse 1996), in an age in which romantic ingenuity no longer made sense. The relativization of the concept of truth (Marinho 2004, 360; Hutcheon 1988, 109), and the awareness that its representation had become impossible, did not leave those who cultivated historiographical meta-fiction indifferent; in their own texts, they questioned this difficult relationship in a number of different ways, using different methods. It is our intention to analyze what seems to us to be a fundamental aspect of various texts written over almost two centuries: the dichotomy between I/the Other and the implications arising from it. Ours is a necessarily limiting and limited approach to this phenomenon which began with Romanticism, and has lasted to the present, though with different aims and characteristics, given the evolution of concepts of history and the awareness that it is scientifically and objectively impossible to access a past which has gone but which is unfinished. The Other, easily perceived in superficial readings, becomes more complex if we move from the literal to the symbolic or structural level. The obvious enemy (the Moors, the Portuguese or Spanish, Jews, Basques, Aragonese, Carlists or Miguelists) are simply the embodiment of the Other which the Romantic movement wished to point to as an opposer of nationality or of new ideas, and to it was added the figure of the Other with whom I coexists who could limit the vision of the latter, particularly if s/he is an important character with proven historical existence. In nineteenth-century novels, and even in those of the first decades of the following century, the appearance of these Others is quite common, and could almost be considered an essential pretext for the structuring of a genre which aimed to be didactic, forming the national conscience and ideologically conditioning it. Ramón Lopez Soler is clear when, in the prologue to Los Bandos de Castilla, o El Caballero del Cisne (Castile, or The swan knight, 1830), he claims: “The novel Los Bandos de Castilla has two main aims: to illustrate the style of Walter Scott and to show that the history of Spain has beautiful passages which are just as likely to attract the reader’s attention as those of Scotland and England” (1975, 7). If we consider the struggles between the Scottish and the English that are at the heart of some of Scott’s novels, it is clear that there are similarities between them and those between Castilians and Aragonese in the above-mentioned work. The appearance of the obvious and inevitable enemy in these texts, whose basic, declared function is to acclaim national values, is a constant feature in both Iberian countries. Mariano José de Larra makes this clear in El Doncel de Don Enrique el Doliente (Henry’s young nobleman, 1834).

The historical novel209 The truth is that the first enemies to be faced were the Moors; but often they were also the Christians, and there were people who believed that by killing one of the former for each one of the latter they had been washed clean of their terrible sinful mistake. Killing the infidel was the great work of merit of the century, which, just like holy water, wrongly gave to some the illusion the rare virtue of having all types of sin washed away.1

It is interesting to note the way in which the Portuguese are referred to in this novel by Larra, with an emphasis which is quite different from that in Lusitanian texts: With regard to Portugal, Castile continued to defend its rights, though feebly: the truth is that since the ill-fated day at Aljubarrota, lost due to the lack of skill of the vigorous young knights of the army of D. Juan I, hope had almost been lost of regaining the kingdom which was rightfully his, following his marriage to Beatriz, daughter and sole heir to King D. Fernando.2

Portuguese novels, from O Monge de Cister (The cistercian monk, 1848) by Alexandre Herculano to late nineteenth-century works, have a totally different vision of that same battle and the aspirations of D. Beatriz, which on one hand highlights the uncertain nature of historical analysis, and on the other, emphasizes the idea of the Other as reversible. Similar in the limited way in which he views the enemy is the problem described by Francisco Navarro Villoslada in the famous Amaya o los vascos en el Siglo VIII (Amaya, or The Basques in the eighth century, 1879): It is one of the deepest mysteries of our history: fights between villages; a singular struggle between heroes, one of which is called the empire of the Goths and the other escualerri, land of the Basques. A fight to the death, in which to fight is to survive and giving up arms is to give in and fall dead. It lasted more than three centuries, just as it could have lasted less than three weeks3

In Eurico o Presbítero (Eurico, the presbyter, 1844), Herculano lays emphasis on the Arab invasions, creating a visible enemy, which conceals a much more dangerous one — Eurico’s impossible love for Hermengarda: “The church door, suddenly flying open, creaked on its hinges and an old ostiary fell forward on to the paved floor giving forth the painful cry that was daily repeated by thousands of Spaniards: — ‘the Arabs!’”4 1.

“Verdad es que los primeros enemigos contra quien debía dirigirse eran los moros; pero muchas veces lo eran también los cristianos, y había quien matando los de aquéllos por cada uno destes últimos, creía lavado el pecado de su espantoso error. Matar infideles era la gran obra meritoria del siglo, a la cual, como al agua bendecida por el sacerdote, daban engañados algunos la rara virtud de lavar toda clase de pecados” (Larra 1984, 54).

2.

“Con respecto a Portugal, Castilla seguía defendiendo, aunque débilmente, sus derechos: verdad es que desde la infausta jornada de Aljubarrota, perdida por la impericia estratégica de los jóvenes y acalorados caballeros del ejército de don Juan I, este mismo había casi abandonado las esperanzas de recobrar aquel reino que indisputablemente le pertenecía por su boda con doña Beatriz, hija y única heredera del muerto rey don Fernando” (Larra 1984, 55–56).

3.

“Se trata de uno de los más hondos misterios de nuestra historia: duelo parece de pueblo a pueblo; combate singular entre dos heróes, uno de los cuales se llama Imperio godo, y outro escualerri, tierra vascongada. Guerra a muerte en que pepelar es vivir, y abandonar el arma, sucumbir y caer en la huesa. Duro más de tres siglos como pudiera haber durado menos de tres semanas” (Navarro Villoslada [1979], 11).

4.

“A porta do templo, aberta com violento impulso, rangera nos gonzos, e um velho ostiário viera cair de bruços sobre as lágeas do pavimento, soltando o grito doloroso que por tantos milhares de bocas diariamente se repetia na Espanha: —‘os árabes!’” (Herculano 1970, 132).

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If it is true that the Other varies, it is also true that in the early period of the Romantic novel it had to exist parallel to the amorous intrigue, to which the reader pays much more attention. Opponents and allies of the main characters appear in succession, competing for the definition of the characters, who frequently are in no way historic, but who share all romantic characteristics: crime, expiation, angels, and devils. In the various historical novels written by writers such as Camilo Castelo Branco, there was much more concern with these plots than with the political setting, which is nonetheless present. A similar case is that of the Galician writer Antonio López Ferreiro in novels such as O Castelo de Pambre (The castle of Pambre, 1895) where, however, the existence of the simple enemy is very clear. After a short time the one hundred men that Gonzalo Ozores had chosen for the siege were on the patio; the other eighty stayed outside so that no one could escape, and with the same force they attacked the castle in spite of the arrows being shot at them from inside. At their head marched Gonzalo Ozores who, wielding his chain mace, quickly broke down the door. At the same time, others using their bodies like swords, fought to get in through the windows. This was not necessary because those who were with Gonzalo Ozores, seeing the door broken down, entered like wolves.5

As the century drew to a close, more emphasis was given to external events, particularly to the French Invasions and the struggles of the Absolutists and Liberals, the former of whom became the Other, though in a limited and pedagogically correct way. Perez Galdós, in Episodios Nacionales (National episodes, 1873–79), illustrates in a number of ways the hatred felt towards the French, even though in some dialogues the negative effect is reduced through the introduction of more educated opinion which comments on the events, relativizing them and showing how they could be interpreted in different ways: Of course the followers of Bonaparte are not drunkards, and we know that poor King José wouldn’t even dream of drinking: but the people didn’t see it like this, in the same way that they never stopped calling him one-eyed although it was clear to see he had two fine eyes. The people wrongly called him drunkard and one-eyed — that much is true. But were the French right in calling the heroes who generously defended the independence of their fatherland on the battlefield, insurgents, bandits, and highway robbers?6

In Paz en la Guerra (Peace in war, 1897), by Miguel de Unamuno, there are clear differences between Carlists and Liberals, the fanaticism of the former (“La masonería era para el antiguo 5.

“Aos poucos menutos xa se hachaban dentro do patio os cen homes que Gonzalo Ozores separara pra o asalto: pois os outros ochenta quedaron fora coidando de que ningún escapase; e co mismo ímpitu avalanzáronse contra a casa á pesar dos saetazos que disparaban os d’adentro. Marchaba aa cabeza Gonzalo Ozores, o cual apreixando a sua macheta d’ armas, aos poucos golpes fixo saltar a porta en anacos. Ao mesmo tempo outros facendo cos corpos a modo de espadas pelexaban por aganchar hastra as fiestras para enxaretarse dentro. Mais non foy perciso abrir este portelo; porque os que estaban con Gonzalo Ozores asi que viron botada a por abaixo, guindáronse dentro como lobos” (Lopez Ferreiro 1895, 92–93).

6.

“Cierto que los Bonapartes no son borrachos, y harto sabemos que el pobre rey José ni por pienso lo bebia; pero el pueblo no lo entiende así, del mismo modo que jamás dejó de llamarle tuerto, aunque bien pudo reparar la hermosura de sus ojos. El pueblo le llamó borracho y tuerto sin motivo, es cierto; pero ¿tienen razón los franceses en llamar insurgentes, bandidos y ladrones de caminos a los héroes que en los campos de batalla defienden generosamente la independencia patria?” (Pérez Galdós 1965, 580).

The historical novel211 soldado de don Carlos el poder oculto de toda maquinación tenebrosa, la explicación del fracaso de la causa santa” — Unamuno 1967, 104; Freemasonry was for the old soldiers of D. Carlos the power concealed behind all evil machinations, the explanation for the failure of the Holy Cause), and even the genesis of a hero who would sublimate the failures caused by the threatening and arrogant Other: And this man existed, […] and he was at one and the same time a man of flesh and blood and a hero from the other world, a living Cid who would return on his horse one fine day to awaken the world from under the spell of heroism, in which fiction is confused with reality and in which shadows live.7

Pío Baroja raises a similar issue in his Memorias de un hombre de acción (Memoirs of a man of action, 1912–28) in which, to a certain extent, he pokes fun at the existence of obvious enemies by integrating them in daily life: “I suppose that for my aunt Ursula, the French revolution was just as much a political plot as the struggle of two drunken villagers at the door of the tavern on market day.”8 In Portugal, there are many works which use the Napoleonic campaigns or the civil wars as well-defined and, generally speaking, ideologically separate Others. Let us take for example writers such as Camilo Castelo Branco, Rebelo da Silva, Arnaldo Gama, Pinheiro Chagas, Teixeira de Vasconcelos, Silva Gaio, and others too numerous to mention. Another such writer is Carlos Malheiro Dias in Paixão de Maria do Céu (Maria do Céu’s passion, 1902), where the spotlight on a rural noble family provides verisimilitude, tinged with sarcasm: “In Paris, Napoleon mobilized armies, believing he was terrorizing Portugal. At the same time, throughout the lands of Portugal, the maize was being dried on the threshing ground and novenas were being said for sailors lost at sea.”9 A personal vision of the same sort appears in A Quinta das Virtudes (The house of the virtues, 1990), by Mário Cláudio, who describes the life of a family and their idea of the French invasions. In this novel, more emphasis is given to details such as cooking and the bleaching of clothes, the buying of domestic utensils and the feeding and fattening up of pigs, than to the Siege of Porto or the visit of Queen Maria II. In the last decades of the twentieth century, with the increase in the number and popularity of the historical novel and the new notions of history, it was not as simple to insert the past as in the early days of the genre, nor did nationalistic or didactic intentions facilitate the inclusion of any features which opposed the achievement of certain ideals. However, it is still possible to find works in which there is a clear existence of various confronting forces and where the inclusion of the past and its diegetic treatment is not very different from that of romantic novels. This is true of the works of Álvaro Guerra — Razões de Coração (Reasons of the heart, 1991) and A Guerra 7.

“Y este hombre vivía, […] y era ala vez un hombre de carne y hueso, un héroe de otro mundo, un Cid vivo que había de volver el mejor día con su caballo para resucitar el mundo encantado del heroísmo, en que la ficción se baña en realidad y en que las sombras viven” (Unamuno 1967, 108).

8.

“Yo supongo que para mi tia Ursula, tan enredo político era la Revolución francesa como la riña de dos aldeanos borrachos a la puerta de una taberna un dia de mercado” (Baroja 1947–48, 9).

9.

“Em Paris, Napoleão mobilizava exércitos, imaginando aterrorizar Portugal. A esse tempo, em toda a terra portuguesa, secava o milho nas eiras e rezavam-se as coroas por intenção dos navegantes perdidos no alto mar” (C. M. Dias 1902, 31).

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Civil (The civil war, 1993), and can also been seen in José Jiménez Lozano’s Historia de un otoño (History of one autumn, 1971), Miguel Delibes’s El hereje (The heretic, 1998), and in Carme Riera’s Cap al cel obert (Heaven and beyond, 2000), although this novel raises an interesting question of alterity, parallel to the allusion to the situation of the converted Jews in Majorca in the middle of the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, the emergence of the Other is much more complex in contemporary historical fiction than it was in works whose prime concern was the exaltation of a people. By abandoning their didactic aim, authors began to question the existence of the Other by repositioning the I, that is, by giving emphasis to atypical historical figures, the personal view is legitimated, whose only aim can be maximum subjectivity, culpable, because unaware. In the words of Agustina Bessa-Luís (2005, 11), “guilt is the core of human acts in which the spirit is revealed” (“a culpa é o centro dos actos humanos no qual o espírito se manifesta”). Curiously, a sort of “instinctive exaltation of the I” (“instinto de exaltação do eu”; Bessa-Luís 2005, 13) may lead to the concealment of identity, as in Lillias Fraser (2001) by Hélia Correia, in which the main character frequently changes her name to protect herself from external threats, or it may lead to the strange confusion which occurs in the above-mentioned novel by Carme Riera, where the writers of the letters are never those we expect, but others who are associated with them. A sort of identity crisis occurs, made worse by a series of events which culminate in the involuntary exchange of identities. The change in the limited understanding of the Other, conditioned by strong ideological imperatives, is brought up to date in Um Deus Passeando pela Brisa da Tarde (A deity walking in the afternoon, 1994), by Mário de Carvalho. By putting into the mouth of Lúcio, a Roman duumvir, the narration of the successes which have occurred during his mandate, the author transgressess the codified vision, by externally focussing on Christianity or the games (of power or entertainment). In the same way, in Além do Maar (Beyond the sea, 1994), Miguel de Medina makes less of the great journey of Vasco da Gama (the discovery of the sea route to India), by relating it from the point of view of the exiled, sailors, Muslims, Africans, or Hindus. This alteration of the status of the Other, which is no longer unified and predetermined, favors narratives in which it is splintered in many shapes and ways. In Capital de la Gloria (Capital city of glory, 2003), Juan Eduardo Zúñiga recreates the town of Madrid during the Civil War, by confronting several identities which become fragile and endangered. In order to escape the Other, which has become stronger, the character acquires a false identity, being at the same time I and the Other: Hidden behind the mask of a man who must have looked very like him, he managed to save himself, keeping silent about the past so that no one would discover him although he was the same, and he would not need the falsehood of new words although he would secretly keep the memory of how much he had been strengthened and matured.10

10. “Cubierto tras la máscara de un hombre que debió ser muy parecido a él, lograria salvarse en la catástrofe guardando silencio de lo pasado y así nadie le descubriría, aunque siguiera siendo el mismo, y no precisaría la falsedad de nuevas palabras sino que en secreto conservaría la memoria de cuanto le fortaleció y le hizo maduruar” (Zúñiga 2004, 169).

The historical novel213 The narrator and the focalizer are thus fundamental for establishing the notion of the Other, as their alteration necessarily entails putting the latter into perspective. The life of the Portuguese king D. João II is substantially reinvented in Crónica Esquecida d’El-Rei D. João II (Forgotten chronicle of King John II, 1995) by Seomara da Veiga Ferreira, and also in A Esmeralda Partida (The broken emerald, 1995) by Fernando Campos, in that the narrators are, respectively, a secret (unofficial) Garcia de Resende and a Jewish doctor, supposedly a poisoner of the king. The same happens in the novel La Beltraneja (2002), by Almudena de Arteaga, where the narrator is Mencía de Lemos, the nanny of a princess. Characters like Inês de Castro, D. Sebastião, Charles V, or Isabella the Catholic have also been the objects of several interpretations. Also curious is when the narrator’s role is attributed to a historical character, who subverts the interpretations which had been made of those I’s, as Others — that is to say, frequently littleloved characters who transfigure once their speech is structured around a new transmitter. Two cases suffice to exemplify this point: Urraca (1991), by Lourdes Ortiz and Leonor Teles ou o Canto da Salamandra (Leoner Teles, or The salamander’s song, 1998), by Seomara da Veiga Ferreira. In the first chapter of the Spanish novel, the radical change in perspective becomes clear: “They will write the story their own way; they will talk about my madness and will lie to justify my deposal and my enclosure. / But it is now Urraca’s turn to talk and she will speak so that the minstrels gather the truth and transmit it from village to village and kingdom to kingdom.”11 Leonor Teles, mistreated by history since Fernão Lopes attributed to her the role of a treacherous adulteress, now speaks in order to replace what is, according to her, the truth: You know perfectly well the secret portrait of my penitent soul, but certain truths lie hidden so deep that it is only at certain moments of our lives that we can translate them into words known to everybody. […] I am repeating myself but it is necessary, for memory sometimes needs these supports and sometimes even some lies — may God forgive us — to be able to translate many truths which so far have only been hinted at.12

It is the same Leonor Teles who verbalizes the essential condition of the I as the producer of discourse, or as a privileged focalizer: “This is the way things are and how they will always be. As I said, it is the winner of the war who is right, and it is always he who tells the tale as he intends it to be written” (“É assim e assim será sempre. Como lhe afirmei, o que tem razão é o vencedor da guerra e é ele quem conta sempre a crónica dela como pretende que seja escrita”; Veiga Ferreira 1998, 293). Urraca manages to relativize the vision of the Other as a reincarnation of evil:

11.

“Ellos escribirán la historia a su modo; hablarán de mi locura y mentirán para justificar mi despojamiento y mi encierro. / Pero Urraca tiene ahora la palabra y va a narrar para que los juglares recojan la verdad y la transmitan de aldea en aldea y de reino en reino” (Ortiz 1991, 10).

12.

“Conheceis perfeitamente o retrato secreto da minha alma de penitente, mas existem verdades tão escondidas que só em certos momentos da nossa vida as podemos traduzir por palavras que toda a gente usa. […] Repito-me mas é necessário pois a memória necessita destes pontos de apoio e, às vezes, até de algumas mentiras —que Deus nos perdoe— para conseguir traduzir muitas verdades apenas vislumbradas” (S. da V. Ferreira 1998, 14 & 58).

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Maria de Fátima Marinho Burn them all with purifying fire. They too [the Arabs], Roberto, have their gehena; they also dream of a fire which will redeem them. There are seven doors to that oven, an endless crematorium, where the flesh is scorched. Can you imagine the shapes of the devil? Iblis, the rebel, ax-Xaitan, Satan. Beautiful Lucifer who refused to kneel down, and for that they kneel before him, at nightfall, because the Other, the evil one, refused to do it.13

And the same Urraca is capable of saying that “There is no one truth, […] but many truths” (“No hay una sola verdad, […] sino muchas verdades”; Ortiz 1991, 183), which goes against the stability of the notion of the Other, as it was pictured in nineteenth century writers and those which followed. In the alternative stories, which consciously change the past (or the idea one has of it), in the works in which past and present affect each other, and in those in which the reproduction of the past is done by appropriating its style and language, the Other is even more subtle, for it represents the past itself, as a privileged interlocutor with the present. In the first case, we could mention such novels as Sara de Ur (1989), by José Jiménez Lozano or O Evangelho segundo Jesus Cristo (The gospel according to Jesus Christ, 1991), by José Saramago, that recreate biblical history, or we could refer to História do Cerco de Lisboa (The history of the siege of Lisbon, 1989) by the same author and El rapto del Santo Grial (The robbery of the saint grail, 1984), by Paloma Díaz-Mas. Saramago, in his latter-mentioned novel, foresees a different conquest of Lisbon in the twelfth century, had the crusades not helped the first Portuguese king, and he constantly takes the Muslim’s point of view, in total alterity. The sentence: “Lisbon was won, Lisbon had been lost” (“Lisboa estava ganha, perdera-se Lisboa”; Saramago 1989, 347), clearly signifies that fundamental duality: if Lisbon was now to be Christian, for the Arabs it was irretrievably lost. Paloma Díaz-Mas reformulates the well-known saga of the quest for the Holy Grail, subverting the conventional features which normally characterize it. Old and tired, the knights are not interested in the search, and consider that the happy outcome of finding it will irretrievably turn into its opposite, that is, attaining perfection will not result in attaining happiness, but indeed will be a condition for making it inaccessible. In a text that imitates the oral tone to be found in medieval descriptions, several characteristic topics of this style, which is parodied down to its smallest details, can be found. Lie and pretense are presented right at the beginning as a crucial condition for the Romanesque style and the actions of its characters, who do one thing, meaning something else. In one case, the narrator starts by stating that “The knights faked great turmoil” (“Los caballeros fingieron gran alborozo”; Díaz-Mas 2001, 11), and then goes on to show that they “looked forward with horror to the arrival of happiness” (“presentían con horror la llegada de la felicidad”; Díaz-Mas 2001, 12), since “there is nothing as sad as not having an ideal to fight for and an unattainable goal to pursue” (“nada hay más triste que no tener un ideal por el que luchar y una meta inalcanzable que perseguir”; Díaz-Mas 2001, 23). Parallel to the conviction that what is supposedly desired, in reality is not, is the action of the king himself who, on one hand, sends

13.

“Quemarles a todos con el fuego purificador. También ellos [os árabes], Roberto, tienen su gehena; también ellos sueñan con un fuego que ha de redimirles. Siete puertas tiene ese horno, crematorio sin fin, donde las carnes se chamuscan. ¿Imaginas las formas del diablo? Iblis, el rebelde, ax-Xaitan, Satanás. El bello Lucifer que se negó a arrodillarse y por eso se postran ello al anochecer, porque el Otro, el maligno, se negó a hacerlo” (Ortiz 1991, 59).

The historical novel215 knights on a quest for the Grail and, on the other, sends counter-emissaries to stop the former from fulfilling the task bestowed upon them. The ambience of deceit which hides under an apparent bigger truth is corroborated by the presence of the classic situation of a masked maiden who, by apparently changing sex, does not achieve the object of her desire and dies, victim of her own disguise. By shifting the (significance of the) presence of the Other towards less obvious meanings, post-modernist historiographical meta-fiction, to make use of the term made famous by Linda Hutcheon, places itself at a divide, in which the rupture between the past and the present is no longer functional, since the interpenetration of the latter and the former causes them to combine. Various novels by Agustina Bessa-Luís, including, for example, O Concerto dos Flamengos (The flamingos’ concert, 1994), Ordens Menores (Minor orders, 1992) or O Mosteiro (The monastery, 1980), as well as Por Todos os Séculos (For all the centuries, 1999), by Nuno Júdice or Vícios e Virtudes (Virtues and vices, 2000), by Helder Macedo, represent paradigmatic cases of clear interference between different times, to such an extent that characters of the present are compared to well-known figures of the past, only understandable with knowledge of the latter. The inherent circularity of these works is explicit in sentences like: “He thought King Sebastian looked like his cousin José Bento, there present” (“Achava que D. Sebastião se parecia com o seu primo José Bento, ali presente”; Bessa-Luís 1980, 71); “We shall not say that Prof. Natan was Socrates, nor that Luís Matias was a spirited Alcibiades. But in their case, there was the same contract of affection and of adventures only dreamt of, and the same compassionate feeling of decline and anticipated human failure.”14 A borderline case of the game with the Other from the past seems to be that of António Lobo Antunes, in As Naus (The return of the caravels, 1988), a novel which reflects upon the problem of the returnees from the African colonies, after the revolution, in Portugal, on April 25, 1974, when he gives to the characters names identical to those of heroes of the Discoveries, easily identified by any averagely-educated reader. The presence of the Other, which is the past, can also be found by the appropriation of an uncharacteristic style at the moment of writing, a style more common to the time to which the action refers. Teresa Bernardino, in Eu, Nuno Álvares (I, Nuno Álvares, 1987), uses medieval terms when giving titles to the chapters (“Where the knightly spirit emerges faced with the challenge of warfare in the fields of Aljubarrota, before the battle”15), Seomara da Veiga Ferreira, in Memórias de Agripina (Agripina’s memoirs, 1993), gives the chapters Latin names; Paloma Díaz-Mas, in El Sueño de Venecia (The dream of Venice, 1992), uses different styles according to the epoch in which the chapters occur and, in La tierra fértil (The rich land, 1999), mocks the medieval style (“Now we will recount how the said Bernat Armengol ended up in Venice and how he managed to find lands there in which to settle his family”).16 14.

“Não vamos dizer que o Prof. Natan era Sócrates, nem Luís Matias um fogoso Alcibíades. Mas houve, no caso deles, o mesmo contrato de afectos e de aventuras apenas sonhadas e o mesmo compadecido sentimento de declínio e de antecipada falha humana” (Bessa-Luís 1992, 40).

15.

“Onde o espírito de cavalaria emerge perante o desafio guerreiro nos campos de Aljubarrota, antes da batalha” (Bernardino 1987, 19).

16. “Ahora diremos cómo fue a parar este Bernat Armengol a Valencia y cómo había conseguido allí tierras para asentarse en ellas con su familia” (Díaz-Mas 1999, 44).

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While in the Romanic period, up until the first decades of the twentieth century, authors tried to recreate the past with obvious didactic purposes, frequently presenting it as an example for the present, post-modern fiction, aware of the impossibility of total and effective knowledge of the past, makes it co-exist with the present, in the conviction that the past is built step by step, even if possibly in a wrong and dogmatic way. El Sueño de Venecia is a good example of this. The explanation given for a mutilated painting which is present throughout the novel, from the seventeenth century up to the present, contradicts what the reader knows from the readings of the several epochs in play. The final paragraph of the novel signifies the opposite of what it appears to reveal in a limited acritical reading. Bearing in mind that any interpretation of the painting is false, we can understand the uselessness of trying to reach the Other, which here is undoubtedly the past: Who knows if some day a fortunate discovery will allow us to know the destiny of the young lady, in the same way that the fortunate finding of the painting we have been studying has allowed us — with the scientific means at our disposal — to completely and truthfully reconstruct the earlier story of the young girl and her family.17

The identity which, at the early stages of the genre was, no doubt, national, turned into a more complex concept, since a certain nostalgic taste for the past becomes a critical ideological attempt to question it, makes it interact with the present, and transforms the question of identity into a personal discursive pursuit. The Other, an enemy to be eliminated, is more and more the Other I, the past which allows me to be (in the) present.

17.

“Quién sabe si algún día un afortunado hallazgo nos permitirá saber cuál fue el destino de la joven, del mismo modo que el hallazgo fortuito del cuadro objecto de nuestro estudio nos ha permitido —con los medios científicos a nuestra disposición— reconstruir cabal y verazmente la historia anterior de la muchacha y de su familia” (Díaz-Mas 2002, 221).

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula José Camões and Maria João Brilhante Although recent criticism (Maniken, Wilmer & Worthen 2001, Worthen & Holland 2003, Wilmer 2004) must be taken into account when considering the possibility of creating national theatre histories, a criticism that will question assumptions supporting such an undertaking (alleged linguistic, geographical, aesthetic, and ethnic units), a simple analysis of theatrical practices and performances produced in the Iberian Peninsula has indicated a need to evaluate the role played by language and aesthetic options in the development of the “nationalization” task. Diversity among linguistic and ethnic communities, their actual mobility beyond geographical borders, the fluctuation of such borders within the Iberian space, owing to political factors and confrontation between oral culture and the hegemony of a written culture, have all been acknowledged. Consequently, and in spite of this, these and other aspects of cultural mutability and permeability have coexisted with intermittent (but persistent) impulses to affirm identities, claiming to differ from each other on the basis of a national language or the aesthetic choices of their theatrical practices. Therefore, the contestation of a monolithic history that has adopted a national perspective of the realities we recognize today as varied or mobile does not mean that this perspective should not be considered in the analysis of the Iberian theatrical field. Furthermore, histories of theatre have used the linguistic (omitting, for example, a repertoire of translations and adaptations) and aesthetic unit (giving priority to dramatic literature over theatrical representation and excluding the more popular genres such as farce, melodrama, or revista — popular, mainly political, theatrical entertainment — and unaware of the theatrical activity developed by groups outside the professional system) since the nineteenth century, which have served, more often than not, as the construction model of emerging theatrical alternatives within communities in search of an autonomous cultural identity. As we will observe, the fragmentation of this monolithic, historical vision, which was constructed around the political and linguistic hegemony of Spain, gave rise to the construction of Galician, Catalan, and Basque theatre histories which, in fact, made use of their language unity and allegedly cohesive cultural and literary tradition to establish the difference between each nation of the Spanish State. In this way, dramatic production (Galician and Catalan, for instance); the creation of institutions (theatres and stable companies, periodic publications, amateur societies and associations) and autochthonous events; the use of languages accepted by the community, even the ones that were not spoken by all its members; and the internationalization of these nations’ artistic culture as a reinforcement of their identity coexisted and, above all, participated, in a process of widespread diffusion, which affected the dominant theatrical reality throughout the Iberian Peninsula, including and beyond Portugal (via the Spanish colonial empire), while simultaneously receiving its influence and models and using them to evaluate prestige and effectiveness. In the Iberian Peninsula, over a period of sixty years, various historical circumstances instigated the configuration of a unit made up of multiple diversities. Therefore, this period (1580– 1640) serves as an ideal starting point for a comparative study of such diversities, with a view doi 10.1075/chlel.29.20cam © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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to trying to understand the constitution of national theatres in Portugal and Spain, by adopting a double perspective: one representing the dominant and colonizing culture with a hegemonic discourse (lasting in Spain until long after 1640); the other representing cultures in the process of national affirmation and struggling against this hegemonic discourse. There is clearly a national program in both cases and the main task is to collect and organize the material proof that has accumulated over the centuries and to try to understand its circumstances and range. The successive unions of the various Iberian kingdoms, beginning with Castile and León, as well as others, culminating in 1479 with the reign of the Catholic monarchs, Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon, as well as the conquests of Muslim territories that culminated with the conquest of Granada in 1492, mapped out a large and very populated territory that was obliged to acknowledge the sovereignty of a crown and to follow a religious standardization program. The latter was accomplished through the conversion of Jews and Muslims to Catholicism and the expulsion of those who were non-accepting, even though each region kept its own institutions and rights. From a territorial point of view, Spain was as it is today, bordered, in the West, by Portugal. Nevertheless, this territorial, political, and religious unit, which reached its peak with the integration of the Portuguese kingdom between 1580 and 1640, had a very complex relationship with linguistic and cultural diversity. Theatre’s contribution to the construction of national identities may and should be considered in conjunction with other political and ideological aspects. As we will see, Galicia, Catalonia, and the Basque country developed their own dramatic creation, audience formation, edition and publication of programmatic texts representing a nationalist theatre, and the creation of institutions supporting community language and customs, dedicated to theatre practice. Through its manifold interaction with specific historical situations, theatre was involved in the construction of national Peninsular awareness, while the Spanish language and comedy were trying to dominate, Galician, Basque, Catalan, and Portuguese dramaturgies, the latter with other implications, were trying to resist and re-create literature and alternative theatrical practices, frequently excluded from the theatrical fabric of the dominant culture. The previous analysis of how histories of theatre, from their initial attempts to account for an artistic unit, have selected and organized information on theatrical activity (including the production of texts, the performances, and the institutional aspect supporting the existence of theatre within communities), throws light on a particular type of program. This analysis reveals a program that encourages practices, illustrating linguistic hegemony (of texts and performances, in both Spanish and Portuguese) which act as the aesthetic paradigm for present and future creation, as will be seen in the re-writing of texts from the Spanish Golden Age. In these histories, the dramatic perfection of Spanish theatre reached its peak with the “comedy,” by authors such as Lope de Vega Carpio and Calderón de la Barca, and with the theatrical system perfected in the corrales and in a politically prosperous Court. This is said to have been followed by an age of crystallization or degeneration of the model, over-used to the point of exhaustion by “lesser” creators, for which an alternative was sought in foreign styles and genres (Italian opera, Romantic drama). Nevertheless, this nationalist perspective, associated by critics and historians with the Spanish trait, simultaneously transmitted the idea of reluctance, on the part of Spain, to be open to other cultures, which may explain, to a certain extent, the impasse its theatre experienced during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Portuguese theatre is also presented as a trajectory from the sixteenth century’s Golden Age, with Gil Vicente, the auto (play) and the involvement of the Court as being highly important

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula219 in the regulation of customs, through to the decadence of the eighteenth century. This was only contradicted by the appearance of a few “geniuses,” who were briefly able to reconstruct a national experience of theatre or, in the Spanish case, as Francisco Ruiz Ramón says, in relation to the work of Lope de Vega “to match the play with the theatrical needs of the theatre goer” (1988, 148). This timeless matching, which surpasses and annuls cultural and historical differences, is, supposedly, at the root of the national value of a dramatic text or artistic model, and even more so when transported by a hegemonic language to which an unquestionable degree of perfection is attributed. Besides reporting this tendency of historiography, it is important to try to understand how the two principles, on which nationalism in the Peninsular theatre was based, were constructed and deconstructed.

The battle of languages A reaction to the use of a foreign language, especially Spanish, may be found in literature and theatre in Portugal at a very early stage. Furthermore, it may be observed that, once again, nationalism was not criticized for the models that were followed and admired, but rather for the linguistic importation and the over-valuing of the national language. Only on account of this can the hearty praise of the Sá de Miranda theatre be appreciated, with emphasis on its nationalist character while the author’s comedies were practically a reproduction of the Roman model — two were even set in Italy. Nevertheless, the author himself was viewed by his contemporaries as being both typically Portuguese and a skilled modeller of language in his comedies. Fernão Lopes de Castanheda, in the “Prologue” to Book 3 of Descobrimento e Conquista da Índia (Discovery and conquest of India, 1552), reveals his admiration for the work of Sá de Miranda: “And I was helped in my task of showing this truth by that great Portuguese poet and eminent scholar, Doctor Francisco de Sá, with the works, both in prose and in verse, that he has written in our language, a Terence of our times, a second Plautus, a second Virgil, a man of such prodigious talent as they were.”1 António Ferreira (1562), creator of the tragedy in Portuguese, alludes to Sá de Miranda in the Prologue of his Comédia do Fanchono (Comedy of Bristo, or The pimp) and his “nationalization” of comedy: “For today we see here in our kingdom the honor and glory of that man who recently introduced comedy, which is as different from all the ancient comedies as the times themselves are different. For who could deny that, in the purity of this language, in the art of the composition, in that truly comic style, in the decorum of his characters, in the inventiveness, seriousness, grace, and artifice, Miranda could triumph over all of them?”2 Authors in the early sixteenth century, especially Gil Vicente, were constantly called upon whenever the idea of creating a national theatre was considered. In the seventeenth century, 1.

“E ajudou-me a mostrar esta verdade aquele grande poeta Português de muito grande erudição, o doutor Franciso de Sá, com as obras que tem compostas na nossa língua, em prosa e em verso, outro Terêncio de nosso tempo, outro Plauto e outro Virgílio. E outro tão maravilhoso engenho como o de cada um destes” (Castanheda 1979, 494).

2.

“pois em nossos dias vemos neste reino a honra e o louvor de quem novamente a trouve a ele, com tanta diferença de tôdolos antigos quanta é a dos mesmos tempos. Porque quem negará que na pureza de sua língua, na arte da composição naquele estilo tam cómico, no decoro das pessoas, na invenção, na gravidade, na graça, no artifício, nom possa triunfar de todos?” (A. Ferreira 1562, fol. 4r).

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during the dual monarchy, Francisco Manuel de Melo in the Hospital das Letras (Hospital of letters), a conversation between two literary figures, makes the character of the Author say to Francisco de Quevedo: You, sir, are continually claiming the entire glory and excellence of the inventors and creators of comedy for your nation, forgetting the Portuguese, as if Gil Vicente had not been the first and funniest comedy writer born on this side of the Pyrenees followed, if not exceeded, by António Prestes, António Ribeiro, the famous Chiado, Sebastião Pires, Simão Machado with his comedies Diu and Alfea, and also forgetting those written in prose by the illustrious Jorge Ferreira, the author of Ulissipo, Aulegrafia, and, as many say, of Eufrosina; Francisco de Sá de Miranda with The Foreigners and Vilhalpandos, Luís de Camões with his Amphitrion and Stratonice, who is now a model for Lucas Assarino, and other works in which all our writers excelled.3

The academic atmosphere of Coimbra gave rise to the emergence of the tragedy Castro, a theme of national history and literature written in Romance language by António Ferreira, who also frequently used his poetry to defend the Portuguese language. However, the awareness of a national theatre became equally apparent in the attention given to the denomination of origin that appeared in the titles of the collections containing sixteenthcentury texts, even when published a century later. So, in 1587, a volume was published with the plays of several authors, entitled Primeira Parte dos Autos e Comédias Portuguesas (First part of Portuguese autos and comedies). In 1622, the comedies of Francisco de Sá de Miranda and António Ferreira were printed in a collection entitled Comédias Famosas Portuguesas or Comédias Portuguesas (Famous Portuguese comedies or Portuguese comedies). In both cases, the names of the authors were secondary. The same phenomenon seemed to occur in the title of the first edition of the works of Sá de Miranda. The fact that Camões chose Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads) as the title for his epic poem may not be detached from this tendency. Oddly enough, the volume Primeras tragedias españolas (First Spanish tragedies) by Antonio de Silva, or, more precisely, Jerónimo Bermúdez, that was published in Madrid in 1577, included two tragedies, Nise Lastimosa (Pitiful Nise) and Nise Laureada (Laureate Nise), the former corresponding to the Spanish version of António Ferreira’s Castro. The critics tend to view Bermúdez as Ferreira’s translator without providing sufficient proof that could explain how the Spanish author had had access to the Portuguese text, since the first two versions were printed in 1587 and 1595. Political resistance towards Spanish rule over Portugal during the early seventeenth century was also revealed through drama, by the language used and, particularly from 1640 onwards, the chosen themes. Although Portuguese writing was a meaningful, political gesture during the so-called dual monarchy (1580–1640), most Portuguese plays were written in Spanish, for commercial reasons among others. After the restoration of independence in 1640 the theatre was

3.

“Vós, senhor D. Francisco, ides e ides acumulando à vossa nação toda a glória desses inventores ou contentores do principado da comédia, não vos lembrando dos portugueses, como se Gil Vicente não fosse o primeiro e mais engraçado cómico que nasceu do Pirenéus para cá, a quem seguiu, e não sei se avantejou, António Prestes, António Ribeiro, que foi o nomeadíssimo Chiado, Sebastião Pires, Simão Machado nas comédias de Diu e de Alfea, e, por outro modo, das que em prosa se escreveram, o ilustre Jorge Ferreira, autor da Ulissipo, Aulegrafia, e dizem que Eufrosina; Francisco de Sá de Miranda nos Estrangeiros e Vilhalpandos; Luís de Camões no seu Anfitrião e Estratónica, de quem agora o tomou Lucas Assarino, e outras obras em que todos os nossos foram insignes” (Colomés 1970, 31).

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula221 transformed into a vehicle for national glories even if, for that purpose, the Spanish language was used, in which case there would always be a justifiable reason, sometimes of an ironic nature. A good example of this tendency was the “Famous Comedy” La mayor hazaña de Portugal (The greatest deeds of Portugal), written around 1642 by Manuel de Araújo de Castro and dedicated to Queen Luísa de Gusmão, the Spanish wife of the Restorer, King John IV: Dedicated to Her illustrious and gracious Majesty Dona Luisa, Queen of Portugal The King’s jubilant acclamation brought such extreme joy to his loyal subjects that every day, both in letters and arms, everyone tries to show the applause with which the Portuguese hearts have welcomed it. Although I am myself a clergyman, here at the Ribeira do Minho, near the Galician border, where I help with my person and arms whenever I am called to do so, I shall perform my duty towards my King and Master. As the war came to a halt this past Winter by the time of this fortunate acclamation, I made the final copy of this comedy that I wrote in Spanish, for it is Your royal Majesty’s language and one that suits these works in a delightful manner, and also to give Castile a chance to read about our glorious deeds in their own language. I submit this humble homage to the protection of Your royal Highness, and that of the King, with prosperous successes of this Portuguese Monarchy. Monção, 20th of March 1642. Your royal Majesty’s humble subject Manoel de Araújo de Castro (M. A. de Castro 1645, fol. 3r)

During this period, and again in the nineteenth century, the Restoration of Independence became a recurring theme in Portuguese theatrical production. However, the mastery of the Spanish language as well as of the aesthetic model of the Spanish comedy continued to be important in theatres and writing, since it provided Portuguese authors with a far more extensive market, as was the case with Jacinto Cordeiro and João de Matos Fragoso. In fact, Spanish was the language of the Court until the mid-eighteenth century. The companies from Spain travelling all over the country and going to the Pátio das Arcas in Lisbon throughout the seventeenth century and early eighteenth century performed their repertoires in Spanish (often written by Portuguese authors), which was not a problem in terms of communication. Translation and adaptation, as we know them today, became regular in Portugal in the eighteenth century, precisely as a gesture of emancipation towards what was considered to be colonizing dramaturgy. Indeed, the replacement of Spanish by Italian in eighteenth century opera, and later by French in Romantic drama, aroused nationalist reactions, as we will later observe, for having defrauded expectations regarding the program for the creation of a dramaturgy detached from imported models. Indeed, there were no immediate political reasons associated with the “invasion” of translations of dramas and “vaudevilles” as there had been in relation to the Spanish theatrical model when the recently re-conquered independence of the crown was discussed. At this time, and we are talking about a relatively long period up to the reign of King Joseph, the well-established theatrical production system in Pátio das Arcas and the publishing and theatrical touring of a repertoire of Spanish comedies or tragicomedies written in Spanish were attacked by a literary and theatrical “modernization” movement, inspired by French classicism and Italian melodrama. This movement was led by an elite of “Foreigners” such as Luis António Verney, Cavaleiro de Oliveira, and Filinto Elísio, or, in the 1750s by members of the Arcádia Lusitana. The controversy that erupted within a restricted circle of aristocrats during the early eighteenth century was, perhaps, the most eloquent proof that the period of political independence did not coincide with cultural, in this case, theatrical, independence. In fact, this controversy is

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worth mentioning since it was a sign of a latent conflict between Portuguese nobility on the one hand which, despite political independence, was still connected to a culture that had dominated for decades and, on the other hand, nobility and “foreign” court officials, who had had experience of cultures beyond the Pyrenees and were fighting for cultural independence, even if it meant importing other foreign models. In 1739, the Discurso apologético em defesa do teatro espanhol (Apologetic speech defending Spanish theatre), written and published in Lisbon by the Marquis of Valença, Dom Francisco de Portugal, a member of the old and prestigious aristocracy, triggered a controversy that put Spanish comedy, particularly Calderón de la Barca, in opposition to French classical theatre, namely Corneille and his tragedy O Cid (The Cid). In fact, French classical doctrine had started to emerge in 1697, when Arte Poética (Poetic art) by Boileau was translated by the Count of Ericeira, whose manuscript was widely known even before its publication in 1793. Indeed in 1737, Molière’s text, George Dandin, translated by Alexandre de Gusmão, had been performed, by request of Lord Trawley, by the actor Nicolau Felix Féris for a private circle. The existence of earlier criticism was implicit through the discourse defending Spanish theatre, which was considered irregular and disrespectful of the rules of composition and bienséance that the anonymous critic, presumably Alexandre de Gusmão, the influential secretary of João V, had taken from the French model. The controversy followed its course with Crítica à famosa tragédia do Cid, composta por Pedro Cornelli [sic] e reparos feitos a ela pelo Marquês de Valença (A criticism of the famous tragedy of the Cid), published in 1747 by the Marquis of Valença and a reply in the form of a leaflet entitled Notas à crítica que o Snr. Marquês de Valença fez à tragédia do Cid compostas [sic] por monsieur Corneille. Escritas por um Anónimo (Notes on the criticism written by the Marquis of Valença). The transformation of literary and theatrical fields was under way, and the Spanish model became threatened by French literature and also by the upsurge of Italian opera. The involvement of the courtiers in this controversy was a sign of political and cultural tension, and the increasing influence of discussions within a restricted and elitist circle on the configuration of the idea of a national theatre that took almost a century to define. It witnessed the involvement of men of letters such as Manuel de Figueiredo, and later Almeida Garrett, as well as translators such as Nicolau Luís, who would adapt a “modern” repertoire, often of unfathomable origin, to the Portuguese taste, and also literary groups, such as the two Arcádias (Lusitana and Nova), which produced doctrinal writings to make the classical model known. The Lusitana, protected by the Marquis of Pombal, was prominent in circulating French dramatic poetry during its first six years of regular activity (1757–60), based on a public program that included translations, the writing of plays based on the classical model, and critical intervention through the production of doctrinal texts. It is not surprising, therefore, that its regulations mentioned Voltaire, Racine, and Corneille in a list of great writers whose works were to be compared by the Árcades with a view to humbly correcting their imperfections. Even though Spanish texts were still available on the book market in spite of the persistence of the Inquisitional censorship against them and Baroque aesthetics, there was an increasing desire for a “new theatre” with music (indeed, the way Correia Garção depicted the various aesthetic tendencies on the Portuguese stage in his comedy, Teatro Novo — New Theatre — was rather elucidatory) or which promoted a new moral order for a society that Pombal intended to transform: Goldoni and Molière dominated the repertoire of public theatres.

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula223 It is, therefore, necessary to stress the importance of the cross-study of information in relation to a point in the history of the Iberian Peninsula in which openness to aesthetic models and languages imported from beyond the Pyrenees was taken as a gesture of identity affirmation by some, and as a threatening influence to national essence by others. In both cases, the cultural hegemony of Spanish theatre and the Spanish language was at stake. This phenomenon of the Peninsula’s openness to Italian and French culture also became important in Spain at the end of the eighteenth century, associated with the circulation of Enlightenment ideas. Perception of how closed Spanish theatre was towards European aesthetic models led to measures towards its “modernization” as well as that of the Spanish culture. Rewriting the texts from the Golden Age served to make them, and the national tradition they symbolized, conform to the principles of Romanticism. As far as the reformers were concerned, many of whom were exiled during the reign of Ferdinand VII, the time for openness had come while the traditionalists defended a genuinely Spanish theatre, or in their words, one that would reflect the character and beliefs accepted by the people. Many historians and critics have protested against the assimilation of foreign models, especially French ones, which broke away from their tradition and were responsible for the decadence of the national theatre, always identified as the theatre of Lope de Vega, Calderón de la Barca, and their followers, up to the period of Neo-Classicism. According to them, the dramaturgy produced in the eighteenth century was Frenchified, anti-patriotic, and unintelligible to the people who were unable to recognize it as their own, since they could not perceive it from a perspective based on Spanish experience. This perspective led Ruiz Ramón to state that “this conversion of reality into drama with a national sense can only be explained from Lope de Vega onwards. […] Noblemen and peasants, men and women, educated and uneducated people shared the same feeling and meaning of life as Spaniards. Lope de Vega started to recognize this Spanish way of living and unliving the existence in himself, in his own sensibility” (1988, 148–49). Therefore, the histories of Spanish theatre in the twentieth century were unanimous in the reproduction of the idea that national awareness in Hispanic theatre, a true, avant la lettre phenomenon of masses, reached its peak with Calderón and the auto sacramental (sacramental play). It was, in fact, the disintegration of the public as a unitarian collective entity, and the proliferation of theatrical practices favoring the performance dimension (pantomime, opera) that caused the rift, accentuated by the importation of classical tragedy. Even the authors of tragedies were against the proliferation of translations from French, distinguishing the original creation from imitation, through the national spirit manifested in the choice of historical subjects and of the heroes of Spanish nations, but also in traits such as the theme of honor, gallantry, or the Gongoric style inherited from Baroque comedy. “The nation itself, the kinfolk of the Spanish genius suffer from a preference for strangers despising their own,” wrote María Rosa Gálvez de Cabrera in the Preface to the publication of her tragedies in 1802 (quoted in Ruiz Ramón 1988, 291).

Theatre, a national issue Measures to encourage and regulate theatrical activity within a political framework based on the construction of a national identity only emerged in Portugal as, indeed, in the rest of Europe, in the nineteenth century. However, it is worth mentioning that paradoxically, the French company

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of Emile Doux had a very important role in the configuration of the Portuguese theatrical field for at least a century. From January 1835 until the end of the year Emile Doux’s company, performing in French, introduced a contemporary French dramaturgy (drama, comedy, vaudeville). Both in its translated form and as the model for dramas written by the generation of authors to which Garrett belonged, it became the main aesthetic source for the sustaining of commercial theatres as well as the only national theatre to be born on that date. On September 28, 1836, a royal decree was published charging Almeida Garrett with the responsibility of restoring a national theatre and presenting “without delay a plan for the foundation and organization of a national theatre that, as a school for good taste, should contribute to the cultural and moral improvement of the Portuguese nation.” In the same year, the Conservatório de Arte Dramática (Conservatory of Dramatic Art) and the Inspecção Geral dos Espectáculos (Performance Authorities) were created and directed by Garrett himself. The state further acknowledged a need to create a space symbolizing theatrical activity in a national context. This was projected in the government’s obligation to construct and finance a building for that purpose, attributing, in the meantime, the same status to some of the existing theatres, such as the Teatro da Rua dos Condes. In 1843 construction work began on the National Theatre, which was to be called D. Maria II, and was completed in 1846. Interestingly, a new theatre, Novo Ginásio Lisbonense (New Gymnasium of Lisbon), was inaugurated in Lisbon that same year and its owners had originally considered naming it Teatro Nacional Lisbonense (National Theatre of Lisbon). This, indeed, demonstrates the symbolism of such a designation at a time when the state sought both to bestow upon the capital a building that represented the nation, and also to legislate in order to distinguish between first and second-class theatres. Close reading of the legislation produced at the time, with a view to creating conditions for the functioning of the National Theatre D. Maria II, reveals not only the use of the theatre as a means to construct national awareness, but also what the idea of a national theatre proposed by this legislation actually was. It must be remembered that for many years the two active public theatres (in the Rua dos Condes and Salitre) fought for the title and financial benefits of a “national theatre” (A. I. T. Vasconcelos 2003, 29–35). While performing his institutional duties, Garrett tried to construct a new taste, since his conviction, expressed in the Introduction to Um Auto de Gil Vicente (An “Auto” by Gil Vicente), was that “once the public’s taste has been created, public taste will support the theatre” (Garrett 1841, 133). Once again the history of the country supplied the themes and, it should be noted, Garrett drew from the theatre memory itself, in order to find material for its restoration. In note M of the Memória ao Conservatório Real (Memorandum to the Royal Conservatory), Garrett depicts a bitter image of the recent history of Portuguese literature, especially as far as the activity of the Árcades is concerned: In spite of the many faults one can perceive in our contemporary literature, nobody can deny that it is less national or natural than its predecessor. The sonnets, the eclogues, the Pindarian odes and the dithyrambs […] displayed perhaps — and I believe they did — fewer errors in language and fewer faults in style […]. However, there was not a thought, an idea, or even a sentence that was not copied and submissively borrowed. Who was there to write cantos on a national theme, to describe a native landscape, to use a mythology other than that of Olympus? All our literature was French with a Greek and Latin reflection; even when the themes were national, the national never went beyond the names of the heroes or the titles of the poems. […] I dare not say that we already have a national literature, nor even do I know if we ever will; but I’m sure that is the path we tread. (1844, 175–76)

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula225 The paths that literature took in the Iberian countries went in opposite directions, or rather, suffered from mutual ignorance. Garrett himself points this out in note H of the same text: “It is a pity and a loss that two literatures that would benefit so much from understanding and helping each other, such as ours and that of the Spanish, are today more estranged than any other in Europe” (1844, 171). He also explains the foundations for the aesthetic and ethical programme of a national theatre: The study of Man is the main enquiry of our century; man’s moral anatomy and physiology are the most relevant sciences to our present needs. Collecting facts about Man is the sage’s task; comparing and serializing them is the occupation of both the philosopher and the politician; the mission of the writer — the poet — is modelling them upon the more popular forms, and in this way dispensing a satisfying education throughout the nations, a moral and intellectual training that, far from preaching and lecturing, would take the common men’s spirits and hearts by surprise whilst at leisure. This is why our literary age is the age of drama and novel, for this is what the novel and drama are, or should be. (1844, 16)

The relation of art to historical time became one of Garrett’s main concerns. The past was considered to be as important as the present for novelists and playwrights in individual character formation and the exercise of national citizenship: The romance of Dona Branca was but a first and tentative approach to check the Portuguese public taste, to start a new genre, and to encourage our young writers to follow that nice model, and explore their ancient history to collect from the ruins of heroic times the character of a more national and natural poetry.

[…]

Theatregoers and readers claim a more substantial and less spicy nourishment [than sonnets and madrigals]; they are the people, they want truth. Give them the truth of the past in romance and historical drama — may contemporary drama and the novel be a mirror of their lives and times, the society above, below and at their level — and the people will applaud because they will understand. It is necessary to understand in order to appreciate and enjoy. (1844, 18–19)

Alexandre Herculano had a nearly opposite way of thinking, which was revealed in a comment on Maria Teles, a drama in five acts, and registered in the Royal Conservatory Memórias manuscripts: Regrettably, our young writers, who are the hope for our national literature, usually prefer to set their works in a historical past in order to show the world their dramatic talent, in spite of having at hand the present times that also represent society and history. Wouldn’t it be better if they studied the world they live in and depicted the blossoms of their imagination with the colors of our times? ([1842], n.p.)

It is possible to identify in this text the beliefs that went on to lead the so-called current social or moral issues drama, a few years later, since the aim was the same: to educate the people. A didactic tone revealing an intention to dignify the less favored classes may be encountered throughout nineteenth-century discourse. This was an immediate reflection of the new, specific circumstances modelled by the exercise of political power with the victory of the Regenerative Movement over the government of Cabral. The nation was represented as being in a state of degradation and the theatre was one of the means of educating the people, by showing them figures and glorious moments of their history and myths (Camões, Dom Sebastião, Inês de Castro), and

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by putting them in contact with the splendor of their language through a dramatic literature that expressed the values of the Portuguese spirit. Nevertheless, recent studies of stage repertoires during the first half of the century, and of the touring of foreign companies around Portugal, have shed light on the co-existence of two realities: a political program for the construction of a national theatre, with a view to dignifying a number of aspects that were to integrate the Portuguese theatrical system (educational and cultural level of the Portuguese actors, repertoire based on historical and nationalist themes, the conferral of dignity upon theatre professions and practices, improvement of public taste, and acknowledgement of the theatre as an artistic manifestation) and a theatrical fabric that was, in fact, dependent on the acceptance of the public which was offered foreign products or an imitation of them, giving rise to a recourse to translations of French and Spanish plays and the good reception given to foreign companies that frequently passed through the capital, performing theatre in their own languages. The idea of a national theatre based on the Portuguese language, tradition, and customs did not make very much sense to entrepreneurs and audiences, who developed their work during a period of great enthusiasm for the theatre, in which there was far greater demand than supply. On this level, it is clear that the idea of a national theatre was merely a footnote to theatre practices in Portugal; however, it was one to which historiography attributed extreme importance. From this perspective, it is important to highlight the interest of historical research in theatre during the 1870s, which was accomplished in the four volumes of the História do Teatro Português (History of Portuguese drama) by Teófilo Braga, and a project by Oliveira Martins for a dramatic tetralogy based on the Portuguese national awareness movement. Nationalist politics in Spain, through the hegemony of the Spanish language were even more direct. Enrique del Pino, in his Historia del Teatro en Málaga durante el siglo XIX (History of drama in Malaga during the nineteenth century) mentions the promulgation of a law in Spain on January 1, 1800, which “forbade the acting, singing, and dancing [sic] of plays in this kingdom which were not written in Spanish and performed by national actors and actresses or by those who had obtained Spanish citizenship” (1985, 85). We are aware of the extent to which these prohibitions, which sought to make theatrical practice conform to the political and moral regimes of societies for centuries, are precious indicators of the practice itself. Indeed, more often than not, they are the only means by which we can “negatively” restore the theatrical context of times when the written register did not always permit its divulgence. In this case, it is clear that the prohibition displays a certain amount of freedom, be it linguistic (local languages spoken by itinerant foreign companies) or professional. State interference in theatre activity, by means of legislation applied throughout the Spanish territory from 1807 onwards, was, therefore, highly significant. Prohibition to perform plays that were not written in Spanish was reinforced on this date as an attempt to use the language as a means of standardization. However, what is equally intriguing is the fact that its attempt to exclude foreign theatrical agents indicates an even more centralizing and authoritative position on the part of the state over its nations. It should be remembered that in the nineteenth century, the professional and artistic theatre domain continued to include itinerant companies or companies that settled for a period of time in the places where they were performing. The fact that they presented texts in a language understood by all was, doubtless, an important way of attracting the public. In the same way,

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula227 the Spanish language and the aesthetic principles canonized by a traditional theatrical practice were considered a guarantee of acceptability and recognition for a writer wishing to see his texts performed by important companies in Madrid. Indeed, some attention should be given to two theatrical manifestations which, in spite of being the target of heavy criticism but valued by the public, were frequently classified as genuinely national: jest (sainete), the “accurate portrait of Spanish daily life and customs” in the words of its cultivator par excellence, Don Ramón de la Cruz, popularized in the late eighteenth century; and the zarzuela, whose success in Seville and Malaga at around 1850 and subsequent expansion across the country was interpreted as a “nationalist” reaction to the implantation of the opera sung in Italian. Besides its use of Spanish, the zarzuela crystallized the tendency for regionalism and costumbrismo which contributed to the construction of a Hispanicism that was supported by the state and has been exhibited and exported up to the present moment. In truth, despite being at the root of important texts such as Don Álvaro o la fuerza del sino (Don Álvaro, or The force of destiny) by the Duke of Rivas in 1835 and Don Juan Tenorio by Zorilla, in 1844, Romanticism, considered episodic in the history of Spanish theatre, ended up “serving,” according to Juan Luis Alborg (1980, 415–16), to intensify the national character of theatrical creation, based on the same pattern it had followed in the European movement. It was this Romantic re-appreciation of regional and local cultures that was revealed, not only in the dramaturgy produced in Spanish, but also, as we have already seen, in that which emerged in the languages of the nations integrating the kingdom of Spain, coupled with the political appeal to the nationalist spirit of the different peoples, stemming from the backdrop of the invasions (between 1808 and 1823), the rise of Liberalism, and the demands of progress and modernization on the part of active groups in the capitalist bourgeoisie.

Resistances to a nationalist program In the Introduction to his catalog of Spanish playwrights in the nineteenth century, Rodríguez Sánchez claims to have used dictionaries by Catalan and Galician writers. However, we found that he does not distinguish them by the language in which they wrote, or by their place of birth. They appear as Spanish writers to whom he made the following references: After the romantic movement and the emergence of liberalism, the flourishing of nationalisms gave rise to multiple cultural and regional interests that eventually brought about the revival and the rescue of figures, writers and intellectuals, who would have remained forgotten had it not been for the nationalist upsurge. (1994, 10)

It seems obvious to Rodríguez Sánchez that the recognition of these playwrights is primarily due to what he refers to as “regionalist effervescence” brought about by the Romantic movement in Spain. Furthermore, he highlights the importance of recent studies on the scenic activity in provincial capitals and colonies (Cuba and Puerto Rico) for knowledge about theatrical realities in these former Spanish colonies, which are associated with communities trying to reinforce their cultural identities in this way. A curious example of the co-existence and influence between a Spanish dramaturgy aiming to unify literary and theatrical practices throughout Spain and peripheral practices, with greater

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or less success and impact, was given by Enrique del Pino in his Historia del Teatro en Málaga durante el siglo XIX, in his reference to Gypsy dramaturgy, by highlighting two authors, Francisco Gómez Sánchez and Manuel Díaz Camacho, perhaps rare examples of the differentiation of an equally ethnic nature in the Peninsula. He points out the elementary structure of their work, in a language which, he says, is a mixture of Spanish and the Gypsy community’s speech and directed at a poorly educated public in the Perchel and Trinidad neighborhoods of Málaga. He places these texts outside the literary canon for depicting, rather than interpreting, the world. Nevertheless, and this aspect is important, this type of dramaturgy progressed from the neighborhoods where it was originally created to attract “high circles,” even achieving publication, as exemplified by Francisco Gómez Sánchez with La boda del tío Pirula (The wedding of Uncle Pirula, 1863) — a “pieza de costumbres gitanescas, en 1 acto y en verso” (play about gypsy traditions in one act and in verse) — and Manuel Díaz Camacho with Un valentón en el Perchel (A brave man in Perchel, 1850) — a “pieza de costumbres malagueñas en 1 acto y en prosa” (a play about traditions from Málaga in one act and in prose). “These are times in which Andalucian grief is reflected in folklore without meaning to reveal a revolutionary attitude,” said the author (1985, 199). In another study of Galician theatre, by Manuel Lorenzo Pillado Mayor, it is possible to find extensive information on the historical, linguistic, and social circumstances that led to the appearance of writing practices and theatre production in Galicia, peripheral to and in confrontation with the dominant Spanish theatrical paradigm. The Galician language, having been relegated for centuries to the category of a language for the oral communication of a specific rural social class, is now claimed as an identifying element of being Galician, in such manner that any attempt to restore it, had to be founded on the criteria of a linguistic standardization (1979, 13)

However, we are more interested in the fact that this history of Galician theatre strove to be constructed (and to construct) according to an idea of national singularity: troubadour lyricism is highlighted as a fundamental mark of Galician medieval theatre; the decadence or atrophy of Galician literature by the hegemony of Spanish letters in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Galician was confined by the victorious language to an oral dimension, often worthy of transcription when needed to illustrate a so-called traditional literature. Galician was revived as a literary language in the early nineteenth century, having previously been restricted to colloquialness and the rural world. It re-emerged in the framework of the Romantic principles of cultivating the traditions of communities, in which the rural uses and customs served as raw material for giving value to the language and its literature. Before the premiere and publication, in 1882, of the first Galician drama A fonte do xuramento (The fountain of the oath) by Francisco María de la Iglesia, there was no record of theatre in this language. This was apparently due to the absence of a theatrical system that accommodated dramatic creation. Nevertheless, Galician theatre was inevitably shaped by the transformations experienced by the Spanish theatre of Romanticism up to Realism, even though priority was given to rural themes and a defense of the Galician people. The latter were ideally depicted as being honorable and simple, in contrast with how they were exploited by the local caciques, of which the social dramas of Manuel Lugrís Freire and San Luis Romero are examples. It was only with the theatrical movement of the 1916 Irmandades da Fala (Brotherhoods of Language), which spread across

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula229 the whole of Galicia with its own repertoire and a refined, literary language that had little in common with rural and archaic Galician, with a view to being acknowledged on the same level as Spanish, that a systematic affirmation of an autonomous Galician theatre was initiated. The seeds of a Galician cultural awareness went on to invade Buenos Aires and Havana, where intense theatrical activity developed from the early twentieth century onwards. The Irmandades gave rise to initiatives such as the publication, in 1920, of the Obras Teatrales Galegas (Galician dramatic works); the Seminário de Estudos Galegos (Seminar of Galician Studies, 1923–36), which focused on a serious research of Galician cultural reality through work groups (ethnography and folklore, geography, arts and letters, philology, etc.); the National Conservatory of Galician Art, created in 1919 (but whose golden age was between 1922 and 1926, under the direction of Leandro Carré Alvarellos); and the re-emergence of dramatic literature promoted by Xeneración Nós (Generation Us), a group of writers (Castelao and Cabanillas, among others) brought together in the journal Nós (Us), which tried to link Galician culture to European culture, thus overcoming its dependence on Spanish culture while exploring the historical roots and myths that had since been recovered. In this program, priority was given to the literary aspect of theatre of which the works of Álvaro Cunqueiro Mora (1911) are a case in point. With the Civil War in 1936, political, social, and cultural repression fell upon these institutions and their autonomist initiatives. The Galician language was viewed again as a sign of the poor education of the people who spoke it. However, from the 1950s onward, the editorial movement around the publishing house Galaxia and the journal Grial (Grail) played an encouraging role in Galician literary creation. In the 1960s and 1970s, as indeed was the case throughout the Iberian Peninsula, independent theatre groups emerged, such as O Facho and the Teatro Circo in La Coruña, with the aim of bringing Galicia closer to the world. Some events transmitted an awareness of Galician cultural identity, such as the first Mostra de Teatro Galego (Festival of Galician Drama) in 1973. Classical theatre was translated into Galician and there was a general concern to keep the dramatic literature written by Galician authors alive by means of publication and performance. Ultimately, this theatrical system was strengthened, but it continued to be seen as peripheral to the domination of the Spanish theatre imposed as a national theatre. The history of the theatre produced in Catalonia is very similar. It reveals, once again, the defense of a language and its literary creation, the construction of a dramaturgy based on history and myths, and, once again, the nineteenth century emerges as the period for a resurgence of a political struggle dependent on dramatic and theatrical creation to reinforce its fight for autonomy. Even though there is evidence of theatrical activity from the seventeenth century onwards among private circles, encouraged by the educated bourgeoisie of Barcelona, and based on translations of the texts of Racine and Molière into Catalan, it was only from 1850 that public theatrical activity was developed in specific buildings for such purposes. In 1860, Serafí Pitarra (pseudonym of Frederic Soler i Hubert), an actor at the age of fifteen, had his debut in L’esquella de la Torratxa (The bell of the tower) in the Odeón theatre of Barcelona, which initiated a theatrical practice in Catalan and was developed by Pitarra for his creation of a company, established in 1865 in the Romea theatre and specializing in Catalan works. In contrast with the conservative, pro-Restoration position of this author and actor, there was another pioneer who participated in the creation of a nationalist theatrical movement in Catalonia, who was socially committed and promoted realist theatre. He was Àngel Guimerà, who viewed the theatre as a stimulus of national awareness to which the two most frequently

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recurring factors we have been discussing have contributed: the use of the history of Catalonia, and the importance attributed to the language, seen as being unique to the letters of the Catalan nation. In the late nineteenth century, theatrical practice and composition of a dramatic repertoire emerged as determinant aspects of a program comprehending the formation of an Association of Catalan Authors, the opening of theatres in the new areas of the city, the creation of the Escola Catalana d’Art Dramàtic (Catalan School of Dramatic Art) in 1898, and the adoption of the aesthetic tendencies of Modernism at the end of the century (the case of Adrià Gual with his Teatre Intim). They represented emancipatory gestures in relation to the theatre model in Spanish imposed by Madrid and, in some cases, were important for guaranteeing the actual constitution of projects for a national Spanish theatre, such as the one proposed by Ribas Cherif in the María Guerrero Theatre. This vitality that went on to invert the direction of the circulation of models re-emerged in the 1970s when the innovative theatrical aesthetics of the Catalan theatre groups, coupled with the explosion of unofficial theatrical spaces, came to sustain the theatre produced throughout Spain. In the 1940s, it seemed that Catalan theatre had ceased to exist. Texts written in Catalan (by Joseph Maria Folch i Torres) were translated into Spanish and, as we have already mentioned in relation to Galician theatre, only cultural manifestations (such as the sardana, regarded as a regional dance) likely to integrate what the state had established as being Spanish folklore, were permitted. Repression and the inferior position of the Catalan language and culture during Franco’s regime did not prevent the appearance of an aesthetic tendency that attracted worldwide attention and managed to reach beyond the local and regional dimension. The physical and plastic theatre of collective units such as Els Joglars, Els Comediants, and La Fura dels Baus, in the 1960s and 1970s, were responsible for the internationalization of the image of Catalan theatre. As far as the emergence of a national Basque theatre is concerned, it also appeared in association with Romanticism, exile, and the desire to affirm a faded identity. The date of 1868 is frequently mentioned in connection with the premiere of the comedy Iriyarena, written in Spanish, with some speeches in Euskera, by the exiled Marcelino Soroa, in Ziburu, as marking the beginning of a regular and consciously launched theatrical activity. In the amateur performance, a young man called Toribio de Alzaga participated and went on to become the main promoter of Basque theatre. It was, however, up to Soroa to continue to create a dramaturgy that was based on Basque culture and also to bring young people together to perform the simple dialogues that he wrote in Basque, such as Anton Caicu, which was praised by the poet Mistral for portraying the struggle to defend a language and culture, according to the Romantic taste. However, it was the constitution of the Cátedra de Declamación Eúskara (Chair of Basque Rhetoric) in February 1915, directed by Toribio de Alzaga and sponsored by the Diputación Gipuzkoana and the town hall of Donostia (San Sebastián), which gave rise to an institutional intervention with a view to developing a theatrical activity identified as Basque by the community, with which and for which it was produced. Indeed, Alzaga came to be an author of well-known literary merit, producing drama based on popular types and Basque customs, which was highly successful on a local level but difficult to “export” to other parts of Spain. Regular performances of texts written in Basque or translated into and adapted for the Basque language continued until the strong repression of Franco’s regime. However, this dramaturgical and theatrical reality, apparently with a more recent history, is what has been least recovered by the histories of theatre in their projects to construct the image of a standard national Spanish theatre.

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula231 Success and failure of a nationalist policy The political independence of Portugal and the fact that the country had its own language were not enough to classify Portuguese theatrical reality as national. Indeed, the creation of a Portuguese theatre through nineteenth-century historiography and the political discussion around the institution symbolizing it contrast with the permeability of the theatrical system to market tendencies and pressures, bringing together a theatre that revisited the history of the nation and a theatre offering themes of an imported reality (the French thesis play) with which the bourgeois public could only have contact through fiction. It could be considered symptomatic (but of what? of the state of the arts that a single word, so appreciated by the end-of-the-century generation, could sum up: decadence?) that the great literary figures of realism had not acquired a taste for the genre by the end of the nineteenth century. The realist theory of theatre in Portugal was characterized by borrowings from Zola and Le Naturalisme au Théâtre and also, to a certain extent, became mixed up with the Republican set of ideals (Pinto 1885). However, some authors felt the intellectual obligation to produce discourse on a national theatre such as, for example, Eça de Queirós: A national theatre is an intelligent and moral necessity, the Italian theatre is a sentimental, useless luxury. Besides, a standard theatre would imply the creation of a dramatic literature, that is to say, the enrichment of our intellectual heritage — a source of constant education in the present, a piece of history for the future. We must bear in mind that today, drama, as any other art, has two goals: the feelings, ideas, ways of life, contemporary institutions that it studies and criticizes, make it a lesson in reasoning in its time and a document of history in the future. (E. de Queirós n.d., 1129)

Being seen at the theatre as a social event and following backstage gossip was one of the dominant classes’ favorite pastimes, as Eça de Queirós registered in his fiction and Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro in his humoristic journals (António Maria, A Paródia). There was practically no naturalist drama in Portugal, at least on a programmatic level, especially when compared to novel production. The public continued to appreciate ultra-romantic drama; the historical drama, of which O duque de Viseu (The duke of Viseu) by Lopes de Mendonça, was an example, with its premiere in the National Theatre in 1886, served to arouse the nationalism of a troubled turn of the century. While Silva Pinto presented some scientific thesis plays, the work of António Enes is a good example of the encounter between thesis plays, based on the French model showing some romantic characteristics, and the ideals of the Republican propaganda. Teixeira de Queirós (1881, 6–13) also tried the theatre but ended up admitting that it did not permit the development or substantiation of a thesis. The most represented authors, such as Marcelino Mesquita (A Pérola, Dor Suprema, Fim de Penitência [The pearl, Supreme suffering, The end of penitence]), presented the conceptual strand of their creation: this play [A Pérola] is the graphical outline of a real episode of Portuguese school life that took place in Lisbon. […] When I wrote it, I was not thinking of moralizing and even less demoralizing the world. This is real life; this is its photograph. (Mesquita 1885, n.p.)

Attempts on the part of late-century, eclectic authors in Portugal to approach naturalist aesthetics were of a regionalist and popular nature and geared towards trying to coin a certain kind of nationalism: Dom João da Câmara with Triste Viuvinha (Poor little widow, 1897), Rosa Enjeitada

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(Forsaken rose, 1901); Lopes de Mendonça, who was adamant to steer clear of the new tendencies and began to approach them with O Azebre (Verdigris, 1909); and Júlio Dantas (a figure associated with power due to his positions as director of the School for Performing Arts and commissioner of the government in the National Theatre after 1909), with A Severa (1901), the story of a female fado singer, and Crucificados (Crucified, 1902), the latter ending up somewhere between late romanticism and inconsequent realism. The essence of love as being exclusive to the Portuguese people was claimed and acknowledged in a semi- serious tone by the author in A Ceia dos Cardeais (The supper of the cardinals, 1902) in a sentence that became famous: “how different love is in Portugal.” At the same time, historical drama relived euphoric moments with the invention of commemorative festivals, especially those of the death of Camões (1880) and the journey of Vasco da Gama (1898), serving as a momentary stimulus to the re-emergence of a national conscience. It is in this context that the poem A Pátria (Fatherland, 1896) by Guerra Junqueiro is seen as curious proof of the nostalgia felt for the betrayed nation, which wanted to become united around a splendorous future. Therefore, the end of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the twentieth century were good examples of the social fascination exerted by the theatre, which was clearly evident in the proliferation of authors in search of the stage and the eventual professionalization of some “suppliers” of a variety of plays (as the case of Dom João da Câmara seems to be) for the capital’s ten main theatres. They also highlighted the commercialization of theatrical activity, constantly being adapted to public tastes, fashion tendencies, and model over-usage, in a context of permanent economic and artistic crisis, against which some interesting experiences for the revival of the arts emerged. The two groups Teatro Livre (1904) and Teatro Moderno (1905) are examples of this. Over a period of three seasons they set out to mobilize actors and authors outside the commercial theatre. Beyond an awareness of the marasmus the theatre was experiencing, there was an obvious influence from the Théâtre Libre and naturalist aesthetics merged with the Republican convictions of its founders (César Porto, António Lima), according to whom the theatre had a social mission as well as the responsibility of dignifying the culture of the people. Weakened by the instability of the political and social climate (leading to the fall of the monarchy and the establishment of the Republic in 1910), stages, especially in Lisbon, exhibited a variety of genres that came close to meeting social criteria: historical drama, drama/comedy of customs (psychological and often regional), operetta, magic, and the revista which, in fact, between 1950 and 1974 had become converted into a kind of performance that was kept under the strict surveillance of the Salazar regime, but which, nonetheless, used it to establish a paradigm of the essence of the Portuguese spirit, with all its stereotypes: cunning, a natural tendency towards the satirical, healthy class relationships, genuine kindness of the people, etc. This cross-class phenomenon helped to construct an idea of national unity, a kind of escape valve for the social and political tensions that, in this way, were not channelled into direct and active intervention in public life. All kinds of audiences could find products to accommodate their tastes, regardless of quality, which was always challenged by the critics of the period. Realist aesthetics filtered into theatre writing while the state was blamed for the degree of artistic decadence that had been reached. Awareness of a need for a national theatre (and literature) existed only among an elite of educated men and politicians who had a cordial relationship with the foreign influence dominating

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula233 the translations and adaptations that were staged, especially French theatre. Owing to the fact that authors, with some exceptions, followed the dominant realist models and taste, occasionally tinged with social preoccupations, this need was, thus, left for the chronic attempt to reform the National Theatre that was the target of criticism at the time. Under the jurisdiction of the state, but privately managed, and always entrusted with reflecting a national dramaturgy and with producing more theatre written by foreign authors, it became the center of controversy while equally representing prestige for its bourgeois audience. It is unanimously acknowledged that theatre production by Portuguese authors reached its peak in the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century. However, was this dramaturgy representative of a national “essence” or “spirit”? In other words, were the end-of-the-century authors, or those who were pushed forward by the republican ideal, aware of their participation in constructing a national dramaturgy and of having a similar attitude to Garrett’s? Would it be possible to say that by choosing to portray situations related to a Portuguese social reality, with urban or regional contours, the above-mentioned authors, among others, such as Carlos Selvagem, Alfredo Cortez, and Ramada Curto, brought about the birth of a national dramaturgy? Or, perhaps, would we have to acknowledge a breach between a literary and artistic practice — seeking to conciliate foreign aesthetic models, already internalized by the public, by means of a profuse supply coming from commercial stages — and a state policy, under constant renewal, as a result of criticism? These critical voices demanded the compliance of principles that were regulated over and over again to guarantee the existence of a theatre type that was given the mission of reviving Portuguese classical theatre (accomplished through the amateur performances of the pupils from the School for Performing Arts), of accepting plays by new authors, and of acting as an example to other theatres around the country, due to the high level of artistic rigor of its productions and the educational nature of its repertoire. The fact that the National Theatre was being run by a company for commercial purposes obviously conditioned the accomplishment of this program and, from 1929, under the most stable management of the Rey Colaço-Robles Monteiro Company, the French plays by Lavedan, Donnay, and Curel which arrived in Portugal, also by means of the journal Petite Illustration, compensated for the frequent failures of the opening performances of texts by national authors. As the century progressed, especially after the military coup of May 28, 1926, which reestablished the previous censorship, even the National Theatre, through its Reading Council, ceased to accept texts by Portuguese authors. In the early twentieth century, the symbolist theatre, already practiced by João da Câmara in O Pântano (The swamp, 1898) found in António Patrício an author who, by revisiting and rearranging the myths and history of the nation, especially in O Fim (The end, 1909) and Pedro o cru (Peter the cruel, 1918), deserves to be singled out from the dominant dramatic creation for having constructed, almost independently of the theatrical and literary system of the time, a dramatic model that transcended the symbolist model (formulated, for example, by Fernando Pessoa) and created a unique theatrical language. The tone with which he approached national mythology was not based on exaltation, glorification, or nostalgia, but rather on discovering in the present the ghosts of a gloomy past, which was nowhere near the aesthetic imposition of realism or historical drama full of romantic idealisms. Perhaps this was why his plays remained outside the theatrical circuit, to the point that only in 1971 did one of his texts, O Fim, reach the stage of the Casa da Comédia.

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The expressionist theatre of Raul Brandão was also a short-lived one, detached from any national awareness. On the contrary, in his reviews he strongly questioned the drama that was performed. His characters and dramatic situations, seemingly, at a first glance, continuations of a social commitment of realist origin, pointed to a deformed dimension of existence, torn between aspirations and frustrations; thus, they were considered hideous in the eyes of the bourgeoisie, for which theatre could only highlight the problems of society with a view to leading them back to an unshakable moral order. These are two unique cases of dramatic writing, created within the aesthetic and ideological universe of its authors, with strict literary demands and which might have been classified as national if there had been any possibility of it being recognized as such by the society of its time. As regards the Modernist authors who joined together around the journals Águia and Orfeu and who, in general, tended to drag down dramatic creation, only Almada Negreiros demands attention for presenting an artistic creation that questioned the hegemony of realism on the stages of Lisbon, but whose innovation made it impossible to stage, both for the actors of the time and for the conservative and uneducated public that attended the theatres. Although his plastic creation revisited some national myths and symbols (see the representation of popular urban figures on the panels of the Quays of Alcântara and Rocha), the inclusion of a nationalist program was hardly glimpsed in his writings for theatre. On the one hand, cosmopolitanism and a futuristic model and, on the other, a provocative position in relation to the official culture, may explain the unclassifiable and peripheral nature of his written drama. Nevertheless, this is yet another case of a unique position towards the need for a theatre for the nation, which is obviously different from a theatre of the nation. While in Portugal the realization of a nationalist set of ideals in theatre seemed inconsequential, restricted to an elite, and justified by a policy of autonomy and isolation that was gradually carried on by Salazar, in Spain theatrical activity revealed a different complexity of a distinct nature. The effort to adapt Romantic ideals to the theatrical tradition of Spain and the restoration of languages and cultures that had been considered regional up to that point, was soon to evolve into the emergence of a realist language that dominated dramaturgical creation and theatrical practices until the mid-twentieth century. The somewhat pamphletarian thesis drama seemed to attenuate cultural differences in the Iberian Peninsula and suggest an aesthetic and ethical unit that was revealed, for example, in the similarity of the approached subjects (adultery, value of work versus class privileges), in the moralistic aims, and in the depiction of a disintegrating bourgeoisie. The French model was implicit in this theatre, even though some of the Spanish authors, during the first half of the century, persisted with the themes of honor and faith, a deliberate inclusion of signs of a kind of Hispanity that García Lorca was able to regard from a magisterial distance. Between the 1940s and 1960s, a different way of conceiving Spain as a nation-state was displayed: by means of revising its history, particularly from the crucial moment marking the start of the Civil War, authors such as Max Aub and Alejandro Casona contributed, in exile, to the renewal of dramatic techniques, more in the style of the epic theatre, in the same way that Buero Vallejo and Alfonso Sastre reformulated the realist thesis play into a political one. However, it is in the transformation of the theatrical system, and particularly of the relationship between those who practiced theatre and the legal framework of the state, that we verify the emergence of an official program for a Spanish national theatre from the 1930s onward. This

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula235 transformation goes back, in fact, to the late eighteenth century by means of the reform plan of Madrid’s theatres recommended by Díez González and accomplished by Leandro Fernández Moratín. From this moment on, in a theatrical system made up of companies subject to the economic imperatives that commercialized creation, a discourse emerged which attributed to the state the responsibility of subsidizing and protecting theatrical activity and of intervening at times of crisis. The end of the nineteenth century was particularly agitated since the Art Theatres that emerged throughout Europe encouraged the demand for, and aroused some initiatives to create, alternative theatres outside the commercial regime, thus requiring the intervention of the state. The Compañía Libre de Declamación (1896), the afore-mentioned Teatro Intim, the Escola Catalana d’Art Dramàtic (1898–1934), and the Teatro Artístico of Benavente and Valle-Inclán (1899), among others, were a symptom of this. From the 1920s onward, the demand for a national theatre became even more explicit, and in 1931 three projects emerged which not only prepared it in practice, but also symbolized the idea of a state that recognized itself in the theatre it produced: the Coro y Teatro del Pueblo de Misiones Pedagógicas (intended to inform the general knowledge and education of the people), the Teatro Universitario La Barraca, and the Teatro Lírico Nacional. The former, to which Alejandro Casona was connected, performed pasos and entremeses in the villages during the four years of its activity; in other words, a classical repertoire was presented as a Spanish theatrical tradition and performed by amateurs and students. La Barraca, promoted in 1932 by Federico García Lorca, despite not being an initiative of the state came to be subsidized by it, and was composed of students who travelled the country with a view to educating the people and artistically renewing a theatre that was predominantly bourgeois and came from the two centralizing poles of Madrid and Barcelona. As far as the Teatro Lírico Nacional is concerned, it reoccupied the Royal Theatre in 1850 and was the only one to depend exclusively on the state. It was, indeed, in its reformulation that the obligation to translate all works into Spanish (even if written in other languages of Spain) and the preference of Spanish actors and singers in the cast were reiterated. Initially managed by a board, in 1933 companies were invited to apply for its management. Shortly before (1929), the Teatro Nacional Dona Maria II in Portugal had also been handed over to the management of the Rey Colaço-Robles Monteiro Company. The failure of the state’s attempts to run the National Theatres may have occurred for different reasons in Spain and Portugal. In one case, it was due to the solid establishment of a commercial system that felt threatened by the possible intervention of the state in the theatrical activities, in the other, to the political inability to put the program, already outlined by Garrett (Theatre, Dramaturgy, Conservatory, Inspection Board) and frequently reformed, into practice, despite the fact that competition from the commercial theatres and the constantly proclaimed theatre crisis were contributory factors. Both these actions had different fates. In the history of the Teatro Nacional Dona Maria II, renamed Teatro Almeida Garrett during the First Republic, two moments are highlighted: under the companies Rosas e Brasão and Rey Colaço-Robles Monteiro, during which the entrepreneurial system complied, as well as it could, with the function of being a model of a national idea of theatre (by means of presenting a repertoire of Portuguese classical and contemporary authors, performing the function of an acting school, shaping the taste of the bourgeois public) for the political regime of Salazar and, later, of Caetano, which occasionally supported it, despite constraints imposed by dependence on the ticket office.

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In Spain, from the 1930s onward, a series of attempts led to the creation of national theatre structures. Ribas Cherif, director and teacher, was a compulsory reference in this process, reinforcing its importance in articles in the newspaper El Sol and defending the creation of a theatre-school that would also be a testing laboratory and a site for the preservation of the classical theatre, in the likeness of what Adrián Gual had achieved in Barcelona. Many voices were raised in defense of a need for authors, actors, and an audience befitting a national theatre, as well as the standardization of taste and models by means of quality standards that the theatre, itself, would have to present. During the 1932–33 period, Ribas Cherif promoted a national theatre in the María Guerrero Theatre that accommodated the Estudio de Arte Dramático del Español, which gave birth to the short-lived Teatro Escuela de Arte. These attempts served to reinforce the progressive awareness that it was up to the state to preserve the classical theatre, recognized by means of a national institution, serving as a model throughout the country and affirming Spanish cultural hegemony. This need became particularly poignant in the commemoration of the three hundredth anniversary of the death of Lope de Vega. Difficulties in the functioning of the responsible board (the Junta Nacional de la música y teatros líricos y dramáticos), a delay in the construction work of the María Guerrero Theatre, rivalry between the government and the municipality of Madrid and, finally, the end of the democratic experience of the Second Republic led to a suspension of the project. However, between 1937, when Federico Torralba Soriano drew up a proposal entitled “Notes on the creation of a national theatre” and 1940, the state took decisive measures at a political moment that was able to profit from the nationalist ideology to unify Spain. Among the aims expressed were: spreading the virtues of citizenship and the exemplary nature of the classical works that contained the moral values of the Spanish people; artistic promotion of theatrical creation; support of new authors who represented the “True Spain” in their works; and the obligation to take this theatre directed by a national spirit to all parts of the country. This was how a number of institutions were formed, such as the Consejo Nacional de Teatros and the Teatro Nacional de la Falange, before the already existent Spanish and María Guerrero Theatres acquired the title and function of “national.” In 1970, the Campaña Nacional de Teatro (National Campaign for the Theatre), and in the 1980s the National Company of Classical Theatre, also belonged to this logic. Nevertheless, from the end of the 1960s onwards, independent companies and the university theatre, in several parts of Spain, were responsible for the openness to European avant-garde tendencies (the political theatre of Piscator and Brecht, the Living Theatre) which was fomented by participation in festivals abroad or promoted in Spain. The critical view of the Civil War, the scenic adaptations of novels, and the type of dramaturgy focusing on the representation of the social problems of Madrid’s society, the heir to authors who had fed the stages for the first half of the century, continued to support this national spirit, despite the progressive emancipation of the theatre produced in the Galician, Basque, and Catalan nations and its international openness. It was, nevertheless, through scenic innovation (collective staging, the occupation of spaces unassociated with certain audiences and theatrical genres, the development of theatrical research, the proliferation of theatre schools) and a loss of influence on the part of theatre production centres (Madrid and Barcelona) through the restoration of theatres in the provinces and the creation of companies throughout the country that the theatrical panorama in Spain acquired the complexity and diversity still encountered today. The strong presence of the state and its

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula237 unifying project remained in the theatrical field on several levels; however, affirmation of these diversities destroyed the historical relationship between the centre and peripheries which might be explained by the political evolution of Spain. While in Spain the relationship between the Spanish state and the theatrical activity of its various nations produced nationalist projects along with an official program for a national theatre, in Portugal the state limited its intervention to the function of controlling and censoring repertoires and the free expansion of the theatrical field (hindering the creation of companies or initiatives to establish the theatre in the country). In the 1950s its intervention was extended to the financing of some units of theatrical production by means of the Theatre Fund, as long as the production’s practices conformed to the principles of the official ideology, the only ones allowed to be transmitted throughout the country. As already mentioned, during the first half of the twentieth century, Portuguese dramaturgical production experienced the influences of the Spanish and French models proposed in the performances exhibited by the concessionary company of the Teatro Nacional, which continued to be a cultural model reference, even though the language of the European avant-gardes only emerged there from the 1940s onwards. In the name of morality and custom, the dictatorship of Salazar imposed harsh limitations on the choice of foreign repertoires both in the Teatro Nacional, where, for example, Valle-Inclán, Lorca, and Buero Vallejo were performed along with Verneuil, Bernstein, Casona, and the Quintero brothers, and in the short-lived actors’ companies (Casa da Comédia, Teatro-Estúdio do Salitre, Os Comediantes de Lisboa, Os Companheiros do Pátio das Comédias, o Teatro Nacional Popular) which tried, after the war, to break away from this overused repertoire of boulevard comedies or custom theme plays and the isolated universe of officially recognized companies. The Portuguese were to experience a long haul through the desert, except those who supported the ideals of the regime (Virgínia Victorino, Francisco Ventura, Manuel Fragoso, Joaquim Paço d’Arcos) and were close to the group of figures occupying positions, giving awards, organizing festivals, and producing the official discourse (Júlio Dantas, Sousa Bastos, António Ferro, Matos Sequeira, Forjaz de Sampaio, Jorge de Faria) that transmitted a nationalist idea of Portuguese theatre based on the celebration of the classics and the exaltation of moments and figures in the history of Portugal, thus restricting contemporary theatrical writing and openness to European aesthetic tendencies. José Régio, Bernardo Santareno, Luiz de Sttau Monteiro, and Luiz Francisco Rebello are some of the many writers whose regular access to the stage was restricted, both by censorship and by a theatrical system whereby attempts to promote contemporary theatre were destined for short-term failure. These same authors managed to make their plays known through publication, an alternative kind of affirmation of a theatre that continued to give priority to the literary dimension, the refinement of language, the critical revisitation of the myths and history of Portugal, and, in the 1960s, timidly experimenting with new dramatic forms, which the discovery of authors such as Beckett, Ionesco, Pinter, and Dorst had rendered possible. Here, as was the case in the rest of the Iberian Peninsula, attempts to resist the hegemony of the theatre for immediate usage emerged outside the commercial theatres or the Teatro Nacional: the amateur and university theatres had an unquestionably motivating role in the 1960s. This was due to the way they had presented the universal classical authors, to the creative availability that the absence of commercial purposes had provided, to their having brought in a new audience and a brand-new generation of actors, and having welcomed, in some cases, inventive creators

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such as Víctor García, Ricardo Salvat, and Adolfo Gutkin, who introduced unknown theatrical techniques to Portugal, which had been isolated from the world at the time. It may be said that the notion of a national theatre was initially bound to the writing of texts in Portuguese, with a view to dignifying the language as an exponent of national identity, and even to the translation of foreign texts, when viewed as part of the mission to promote the Portuguese language and the dramatic models considered to be regular in the literary canon and expressive of the elitist culture of the dominant classes. With the dictatorship of Salazar, national identity became untouchable in its glory and the purity of its people in the cult of classical or even contemporary texts, as long as they transmitted the image of a nation that remained immune to the winds of history. The imposition of the idea of a national essence, which had become a program, was denounced in the following statement by João Pedro de Andrade, playwright, theatre critic (in the 1940s and 1950s), and essayist: The great literary works, written for the theatre, or not, may very well be deeply national without having to seek their inspiration in the life or the history of the countries of their authors. The classical theatre is full of examples of that unbiased nationalism. Among the most recent dramatic production from various countries it is possible to find many comedies and dramas set far away from the countries where their authors were born. Perhaps the Portuguese have been stuck in their shells for too long. If there is such a thing as a Portuguese spirit — and it would be very difficult to prove or deny it — it will emerge one day with its virtues and faults and be noticeable in the works we create, without having necessarily to be dressed up in the costumes of Minho or the Algarve. (2004, 388)

After the 1974 Revolution, the idea of constructing and preserving a national theatre remained, in the promotion of original writings by means of subsidies for literary creation, the distribution of awards (Garrett/Office of the Secretary of State for Culture, Sociedade Portuguesa de Autores/ Novo Grupo), incentives to perform original works, and by making the re-integration of Portuguese authors into the agendas of the selected companies a compulsory requirement for any state subsidy. In addition to the Teatro Nacional D. Maria II, which underwent continuous restructuring, culminating in a board of directors composed of artists and intellectuals appointed by the state, the Teatro Nacional de São João was created in Oporto, which was to become responsible for the management and agenda of the Teatro Carlos Alberto. However, a network of municipal theatres around the country serves to complete the program of subordinating theatrical offering to state politics. Indeed, there is very little commercial activity beyond that of the theatre financially supported by the Ministry of Culture, which is almost always associated with financial groups holding media shares (newspapers and television channels). Privately organized writing workshops or, like Dramat, linked to the Teatro Nacional de São João in the 1990s, try to promote a renewal of dramatic writing and, owing to the receptiveness between the writer and the stage manager, some dramaturgy has emerged from the scenic creation itself (such as Abel Neves, Carlos Pessoa, and Jorge Silva Melo). Publication has ceased to exercise a supplementary function and, in most cases, accompanies the staging of many of these texts. In this way, the national theatre in Portugal went on to become synonymous with a theatre that was financially and politically dependent on the state. However, is it also aesthetically dependent, since it needs to be sanctioned by the same state?

The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula239 It is hard to reach conclusions about this journey back through centuries and across the Peninsular territory and its nations. We would also like to continue to explore other perspectives, in addition to the ones we have chosen, in order to tackle the question of nationalism in theatre. The fact that we have given priority to the language and aesthetic models as factors of the possible constitution of national theatres has merely been due to the verification that they were and still are the pillars supporting the idea of any national theatre expressed in the pages of theatre histories. Indeed, they have formed the basis of our search to discover to what extent they are the expression, and also the foundation, of what we understand today as being a national theatre. It is not our aim to merely criticize or deconstruct this perspective, but rather to follow the process of its construction, by means of artistic or social and political practices and the representations (textual, discursive) that were a part of the Peninsula’s theatrical field. We acknowledge the perpetual movement between gestures of exclusion and the limiting of boundaries, so frequently artificial or artificially constructed, in order to preserve, invent, and transmit an image of itself and gestures of openness, with a view to appropriating or incorporating aspects of other cultures, without which any cultural practice would become sterile or extinct. The theatrical activity of the Iberian Peninsula only differs from that of other places on the basis of historical circumstances which were its own; however, it participates in the same way in the dynamics of constructing a national identity, thanks to the affirmation of a dominant language and a unique aesthetic tradition accompanied by the characterization of certain practices and models as foreign. The fact that Spanish comedy became “more foreign” in the territory that became Portugal when the struggle for independence was intensified, demonstrates the degree of flexibility in the notion of national theatre and highlights the obligation for including the comparative study of literature and theatre in their social and historical context and for clarifying the point from which the contours of that same context may be outlined.

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative Elena Losada The topic of female adultery in the novel of the second half of the nineteenth century is, by virtue of its presence in all the major European literary traditions and of the intensity of the debates it raised, one of the backbones of the ideological discourse of realist narrative, which, in the Iberian Peninsula, due to the practical superposition of the two genres at the time, we can more properly define as realist-naturalist. Spanish and Portuguese realism-naturalism have points in common, obviously, but they also have important differences. The most relevant similarity is the late arrival of realism on the Peninsula and the consequent superposition of realism and naturalism. In both cases realismnaturalism created a notable polemic. Portuguese naturalists formed a group around the Revista de Estudos Livres (Journal of free studies), edited by Teófilo Braga and Teixeira Bastos, in which, in 1885, a series of articles appeared under the generic rubric “Naturalist Novelists.” The opposition that we can observe in Spain between the positions of Emilia Pardo Bazán and Leopoldo García Alas (pseud. Clarín) on one hand (to mention only two names) and those of Juan Valera and José María de Pereda on the other, is reproduced in Portugal between José Maria de Eça de Queirós (with reservations), Lourenço Pinto, and Fialho de Almeida, opposite Pinheiro Chagas, Latino Coelho, and Camilo Castelo Branco. The ideological discourse of both realisms also presents many points in common — particularly that of regenerationism and the need to bring the Peninsula into modernity that Antero de Quental emphasized in 1871 in his lecture on Causas da Decadência dos Povos Peninsulares (Reasons for the decadence of the Peninsular people). The common bases of this discourse are rationalist premises taken from Comte, Spencer, Taine, and Stuart Mill (Reis 1999, 93), but we can see an important distinction in the foundation of the ideological differences on either side of the border. The philosophical reference in Portugal is Proudhon and in Spain it is Krause. Portuguese realists are deeply marked by Proudhon’s utopian — and misogynist — socialism, and Spanish realists by the pedagogical zeal of Krausists, which is particularly notable in Clarín. Furthermore, Spanish realism-naturalism is a polyphonic concert with various voices operating on the same level; Galdós does not silence Clarín, or vice versa, and we also hear clearly the voices of Pardo Bazán, Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, and — from another ideological perspective — Valera and Pereda. Portuguese realism-naturalism is almost a single line, by Eça de Queirós, with a faraway chorus: Teixeira de Queirós, Júlio Lourenço Pinto, José Augusto Vieira, and Abel Botelho, all of whom are much more naturalist, strictly speaking, than Eça. The general tone of Spanish naturalism is less deterministic than the French, more linked to the realist tradition of the Spanish novel, defended by all the polemicists as the national form of the new aesthetic. All of them, Clarín, Galdós, Rafael Altamira, Pardo Bazán, and Armando Palacio Valdés, claimed to be more realist, in the Cervantean sense, than naturalist according to Zola’s criteria. The Spanish novelist that was closest to the French naturalist’s model, to the point that he was called the “Spanish Zola,” was Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. In Portugal, Lourenço Pinto and Abel Botelho were the keepers of naturalist orthodoxy, since Eça de Queirós quickly went in a new aesthetic direction toward the end of the century. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.21los © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative241 A final important trait differentiates Spanish realism from Portuguese: the strong regionalization and the existence of the realist-naturalist novel in other languages, as in the case of Narcís Oller, whose novels La febre d’or (Gold fever, 1890–92), Pilar Prim (1906), and especially L’escanyapobres (The usurer, 1883), are the best examples of realism-naturalism in Catalan. In both literatures, beyond the emblematic La Regenta and O Primo Basílio (Cousin Bazilio, 1878), we find the presence of the “novel of female adultery,” as Bill Overton (1996, 1) called it, citing Tolstoy’s assertion that adultery was the only theme of all novels. The adultery of bourgeois women (because that is the class of which authors are speaking from Normandy to Saint Petersburg) is one of the great themes of realist narrative, in its pure form or combined with other recurring themes like the rise of capital (the market, industry, etc.), carnal sins of men of the cloth, inactivity as a social cancer, and, always, the family as a microcosm. To give a few examples (the exhaustive list is much longer), let us recall some titles: Madame Bovary (Gustave Flaubert, 1857), The eternal husband (Fyodor Dostoevsky, 1870), Cousin Bazilio (Eça de Queirós, 1878), Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy, 1880), Lo prohibido (Benito Pérez Galdós, 1884), La Regenta (Leopoldo Alas, Clarín, 1888), Effi Briest (Theodor Fontane, 1895), and The awakening (Kate Chopin, 1899). Female adultery has been one of the eternal themes of Western literature since the foundational Homeric triangle formed by Menelaus, Helen, and Paris. We find it in all medieval literature, in the higher register in the courtly novel, and in the farcical register in the fabliaux. It also appears in the libertine novel of the eighteenth century and, in the form of unbridled and fatal passion, in the romantic novel. But it never acquires such an obsessive and recurring character, so generative of social polemics, as in bourgeois Europe of the second half of the nineteenth century, within a clear chronological framework: from Madame Bovary, 1857 to The Awakening, 1899. Given that within that time period, there was no significant increase in court cases of adultery (which was an offense subject to criminal law in many European legal systems, and certainly on the Iberian Peninsula), we must conclude that “real” women did not take lovers in a widespread manner or in a greater percentage than previously. But then, why did fictional heroines do so? The topic of adultery as it appears in the realist novel is inseparable from the bourgeois morals that developed in the seventeenth century with puritanism (see Leites 1990, 73–105). These morals, which in the nineteenth century have effectively become a moral double standard — one law for men and another for women — are based on the contractual nature of matrimony. In the Ancien Régime, a man’s life was governed by many social structures and norms. As of the eighteenth century, these ties converged around the idea of a contract, especially the marriage contract, as the crux of society (see Engels 2010). Hence, female adultery, which endangers the patrilineal transmission of inheritance, becomes a direct attack on the social strucutre, and all are in agreement about its condemnation: conservatives and socialists, ultra-Catholics and free thinkers. Adultery is a triple betrayal: of the interpersonal contract, because bourgeois marriage assumes a certain degree of affection between spouses; of the social contract that constitutes the family; and of the religious contract entered into before God, since marriage took place in the church. In a time of great consolidation of broad sectors of the middle class where these bourgeois values were pervasive, female adultery is seen as a great danger for the community. Women’s adultery also violates another principle of the modern world: the privacy of the home. The lover is a trespasser in the home, a usurper who occupies a space that does not belong to him (see Tanner 1981, 24–51). The bourgeois home is such a sacred area that in the canonical novels of adultery, the adulterous relationship is never consummated within it; there could be

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flings on the sofa, but the bedroom, the most private bastion of a bourgeois house, protected by its heavy velvet curtains, remains intact. Further, female adultery questions at its very root the image of “ángel del hogar” (angel in the house), the cornerstone of bourgeois morality duly canonized in etiquette manuals and in philosophical treatises. As a counter-image of this “angel” comes the adulteress, a “devil woman” who feels desire and shows individual initiative. Her evolution from “impregnable fortress” to “withered flower” (the terminology comes from La Regenta) recalls the cardinal fall, that which converted Lucifer to Satan. Along those lines, let us recall the rapid transition from ideal to animal that Carlos da Maia’s mistresses undergo (Os Maias, by Eça de Queirós) when he begins to tire of them. The adulteress is, therefore, a monster, a natural and moral aberration, as Schopenhauer clearly affirmed in a well-known passage from “Metaphysics of love” (1851): In the first place, a man in love is by nature inclined to be inconstant, while a woman constant. A man’s love perceptibly decreases after a certain period; almost every other woman charms him more than the one he already possesses; he longs for change: while a woman’s love increases from the very moment it is returned. This is because nature aims at the preservation of the species, and consequently at as great an increase in it as possible […]. For this reason conjugal fidelity is artificial with the man but natural to a woman. Hence a woman’s infidelity, looked at objectively on account of the consequences, and subjectively on account of its unnaturalness, is much more unpardonable than a man’s. (Schopenhauer 2010, 240–41)

That is the central problem: patrilineal transmission of inheritance. Female adultery can introduce a bastard into the line of inheritance, a “stranger” who will inherit that which does not belong to him. The dual bourgeois morality rests on that main point, which Tolstoy reflects magnificently in Anna Karenina, which in reality is the story of two adulterous relationships, not one. Anna meets Vronsky when she is traveling from Saint Petersburg to Moscow to restore peace to the household of her brother Stiva, who has betrayed his wife Dolly with their French governess. But, contrary to what happens with his sister, Stiva Oblonsky’s adultery will have no consequences. Dolly will forgive him (until the next governess) and life will go on. The discourse of moral double standards and the belief in women’s natural fidelity was so dominant and omnipresent that it can even be found in texts written for women. In The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Anne Brontë, 1848), we find not only the same idea, but almost the same words that Schopenhauer would write three years later: “‘The cases are different,’ he replied. ‘It is a woman’s nature to be constant — to love one and one only, blindly, tenderly, and for ever’” (Brontë 1992, 224). Novels of female adultery are the positivist response to the romantic aesthetic of infinite longing and to the individual right to happiness that was the topic of many scholarly monographs of the eighteenth century that Saint-Just established from the lectern of the National Convention when he proclaimed, on March 8, 1794, that “happiness is a new idea in Europe” (Saint-Just 1968, 206). The drama of adultery is essentially that of the conflict between two opposed individual rights in which the happiness of one necessarily implies the unhappiness of the other. Before this modern recognition of the individual’s right to happiness, the issue was resolved with an appeal to duty and the well-being of the group (the family), which was much more important than the happiness of one of its members; but modern individualism could not experience it as anything other than conflict and crisis, elements which, furthermore, are essential constituents of the very concept of modernity.

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative243 Moreover, the variety of roles demanded of women with weak educations and a great lack of knowledge of reality was also the source of problems. Daughter, mother, or sister are biological roles, but “marriageable young lady,” “honest wife,” and “respectable widow” are social roles that were often at odds with the reality of a semi-imposed marriage to a man who was generally much older and whose sexual and sentimental education had usually taken place in brothels of varying degrees of elegance. The expectations of a bourgeois girl, educated only to get by on the social and decorative arts — a little piano, a little watercolor, a little French — until she could find the best possible husband, came from an idealized conception of love learned in the pages of romantic novels, particularly those of Walter Scott, a dream that was the complete opposite of what reality had in store for her. As of the late eighteenth century, literature — particularly the novel — began to address a female readership. Bourgeois women’s free time (that so preoccupied the moralists) was filled with novels. This author-female-reader idyll is made explicit in the texts: “kind [lady] reader, gentle [lady] reader, dear [lady] reader” are epithets repeated by Garrett and by Camilo Castelo Branco. The fact that in 1837 women were impeded from entering the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid (although the law allowed them to do so) had no effect; reading rooms and, in cases of greater economic power, purchase — Anna Karenina ordered books from Paris — helped women to avoid legal obstacles. In many cases, novels would be the only weapon against the boredom of women condemned to absolute inactivity, a situation caused by the socioeconomic changes of the nineteenth century (Kaplan 1994, 322). Bourgeois women became completely removed from any productive activity by the progressive professionalization of certain areas that traditional society assigned them. For example, they did not heal anymore; (male) doctors, who were more “scientific,” did it for them. Nor did they spin or weave; they could only make objects that had no monetary value, as charitable works. The main problem was, therefore, what I have noted above: how to fill bourgeois women’s new free time? To oppose the danger of “unsuitable” literature, etiquette manuals, which offered a program of “controlled” readings, became popular. These books, halfway between the moral treatises on matrimony of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, like Luis de León’s La perfecta casada (The perfect wife, 1584) and Francisco Manuel de Mello’’s Carta de Guia de Casados (The government of a wife, 1651), and the etiquette guides that even today tell us how to set the table for a formal dinner, contributed to the creation of a set of middle class values, and are essential for understanding which model of woman — there was one for every age and condition — society required. It is essential to study them (see Joaquim 1997, 197–400) to calibrate the “deviation” that fictional adulteresses represent with respect to the established norm. The most appreciated feminine qualities in these books are modesty, silence, and honesty for the unmarried woman, and thrift and obedience to the husband for the married woman. One of the most influential deportment manuals in Portugal in the nineteenth century, J. I. Roquette’s Código do Bom-Tom (Code for good conduct, 1845), is clear on this subject: “And you, my Eugenia, with even more reason should enter the room modestly and silently and not attract upon yourself the attention of those present.”1

1.

“E tu minha Eugênia, ainda com mais razão deves entrar na sala modesta e silenciosamente, e fazer com que não chames sobre ti a atenção dos circunstantes” (Roquette 1997, 130).

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Throughout the nineteenth century, and especially in its second half, the woman who seeks a different reality in novels, a role model, the “quixotic” woman, is criticized, ridiculed, and observed like a lab rat. And if the woman who reads is dangerous, what of the woman who writes? Poor Ana Ozores, whose “friends” call her “Jorge Sandio”: When doña Anuncia came across a notebook full of poems, an inkwell, and a pen on Ana’s bedside table, she displayed no less astonishment than if she had found a pack of playing-cards, a bottle of spirits, or a revolver. That was a mannish thing, indeed a vice of vulgar, plebeian men. If Ana had smoked cigars, the old maid’s stupefaction would not have been greater. “A bluestocking in the family!” (García Alas 2005, 112)2

For women, “having literature” is always negative, it converts them into unnatural beings; in other words, monsters. This is the same “not natural” quality that Schopenhauer attributes to adulterous women. For this reason, reading is presented as the natural precursor to adultery. In novels, women found heroes, the space for an epic sense of existence that the bourgeois world had forgotten. And these heroes of another world and another time seemed to shine with perfection, highly superior to the real husbands they would meet. How could Charles Bovary compete with Ivanhoe? The mother of all bovarists, Emma, also succumbed to the Scottish fashion. Walter Scott has a special place among the readings that “poisoned” this female Quixote. Of all the authors of the novel of adultery, Eça de Queirós is the most Flaubertian, and in his work the echoes of that Scotland that troubled Emma are especially vivid. Maria Monforte, the mother of the protagonist of The Maias, reads Scottish novels and they influence her to the point that she names her son Carlos Eduardo and her daughter Maria Eduarda. In Cousin Bazilio, Walter Scott also plays a fundamental role in Luísa’s sentimental education: She read a lot of novels […]. When she was eighteen and still single, she had been mad about Walter Scott and about Scotland; at the time she had wanted to go and live in one of those Scottish castles which bore the clan’s coat of arms over its pointed arches and which was furnished with Gothic chests and displays of weapons […]; and she had loved Evandale, Morton, and Ivanhoe, all so grave and tender. (E. de Queirós 2003, 11 & 12)3

No reality can grant these hopes and dreams. The mix of these unrealized hopes and the sentimental masochism that Louise Kaplan (1994, 32–33) analyzes in her study and compares to Hörigkeit (Kaplan 1994, 55), enslavement or extreme submission, is at the root of the dissatisfaction with life that pushed so many women of the nineteenth century to the nervous illnesses that Dr. Isaac Baker Brown treated with clitoridectomy in his prestigious London practice in the 1860s. But let us not forget that we are talking about novels about women written by men, many of whom were highly influenced by Proudhon and Michelet’s “left-wing misogyny.” Very little of this real gender drama appears in their work. In the best case (Tolstoy, Clarín) we find some 2.

“Cuando doña Anuncia topó en la mesilla de noche de Ana con un cuaderno de versos, un tintero y una pluma, manifestó igual asombro que si hubiera visto un revólver, una baraja o una botella de aguardiente. Aquello era una cosa hombruna, un vicio de hombres vulgares, plebeyos. Si hubiera fumado, no hubiera sido mayor la estupefacción de aquellas solteronas. ‘¡Una Ozores literata!’” (García Alas 1981, 1:231–32).

3.

“Lia muitos romances; […] Em solteira, aos dezoito anos entusiasmara-se por Walter Scott e pela Escócia; desejara então viver num daqueles castelos escoceses, que têm sobre as ogivas os brasões do clã, mobilados com arcas góticas e troféus de armas, […] e amara Ervandalo, Morton e Ivanhoe, ternos e graves” (E. de Queirós 1878, 18).

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative245 more nuanced appearances and even some ambiguity: individual pity for their heroines, whose reasons they appear to understand, but without this pity preventing the absolute social condemnation of their actions or the cruelty of their fate. Because the adulteress almost always dies: Emma’s arsenic (Madame Bovary), Luísa’s brain fever (Cousin Bazilio), Effi’s tuberculosis (Effi Briest), Anna Karenina’s train tracks, or Edna Pontellier’s sinking in the ocean (The awakening) are the logical ending of the fall from “impregnable fortress” to “withered flower” that I have mentioned above. And when the adulteress, exceptionally, does not die, her fate is not much better: the social death of Ana (La Regenta) or Eloísa’s moral degradation (Lo prohibido) as she has become a courtesan, “fallen” definitively. This punishment is absolutely necessary because the moral purpose of these novels is basically to warn their readers of the danger to their family and to society presented by these lazy, spoiled women who have lost the puritan values of sacrifice and constancy that began in the seventeenth century. Hence, because it is moral literature, the description of the adultery is absent or nearly absent in the majority of cases — Eça de Queirós is a notable exception to this rule. A narrative ellipsis, often dramatic, as in the case of Galdós’s Lo prohibido (The forbidden, 1884–85), where one chapter ends with nothing having happened and the next begins with everything done, modestly conceals the guilty act. The authors of the “novel of adultery” are far from the playful intentions of the libertine novel of the eighteenth century (Tanner 1981, 13). To carry out a study of the novel of adultery, not only as a narrative genre but particularly as ideological discourse, we must bear in mind the non-literary cultural elements that shape it: penal codes, medical and psychiatric texts, etiquette manuals, theological and philosophical texts, etc. In the case of Spain and Portugal, with a similar social and religious structure, this background material is very similar as well and creates a similar feminine model. Let us mention some facts relevant to the understanding of women’s reality on the Iberian Peninsula. Women did not control their own money in either country, not only because, as we have said, the bourgeois woman could not devote herself to anything involving compensated work but also because if she had her own property, it was controlled by a guardian, husband, father, brother, or even son, in the case of some widows. In Spain, according to the Civil Code of 1889, a woman cannot be part of a family council or be anyone’s guardian (Ciplijauskaité 1984, 17). Adultery was a criminal offense in both countries. A husband’s accusation could send the adulterous couple to jail (as occurred in the notorious case of Camilo Castelo Branco and Ana Plácido). Let us recall that in Spain, the offense of adultery was not removed from the penal code until 1983. Now that we have laid out these preliminary considerations, we can proceed to delineate and analyze a corpus of the novel of adultery on the Iberian Peninsula. We consider as belonging to the corpus only those novels in which female adultery is the main theme; if we were to include those narratives in which adultery occurs as a secondary theme, the list would be vast. The novel of adultery in Spain A corpus of the novel of adultery in Spanish literature should include the following authors and novels: Pedro Antonio de Alarcón (1833–91), El escándalo (1875); Benito Pérez Galdós (1843–1920), Lo prohibido (1884–85), La de Bringas (1884), Fortunata y Jacinta (1886–87), La incógnita (1888), and Realidad (1889); José Mª de Pereda (1833–1906), La Montálvez (1888); Leopoldo Alas, “Clarín” (1852–1901), La Regenta (1885), Su único hijo (1891); Armando Palacio Valdés (1853–1938), La

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espuma (1902); and Vicente Blasco Ibáñez (1867–1928), Cañas y Barro (1902). We could also include the novel Insolación (Insolation, 1889), by Emilia Pardo Bazán (1851–1921), because, although its protagonist, a widow, cannot be considered an adulteress in the strict sense of the word, a female author’s reflection on the “guilt” of a woman who desires and whose desire leads her to commit a social faux-pas is extremely interesting for observing the dissidences and fissures within naturalism’s ideological discourse. In Catalan literature, where there is no realist-naturalist novel specifically about female adultery, we nonetheless find two works that, though they do not meet the criteria for inclusion in the list, present elements of great interest: Pilar Prim (1906) and La febre d’or (1890–92), by Narcís Oller (1846–1930). In the first case, as in Insolación, the protagonist is a widow. The second presents a paradigmatic case of male adultery in which we see again the Schopenhauerian justification of men’s natural inconstancy: And then, half confessing the affair, he tried to obtain forgiveness, advancing the theory that men’s adultery, fleeting and while away from home, is almost natural and means nothing at all, because it does not usually have any consequences.4

Alarcón’s El escándalo (The scandal, 1875) includes, among other themes, Fabián Conde’s adultery with Don Jaime de la Guardia’s sister-in-law. It is still a novel of romantic vices, ideologically very distant from the discourse of naturalism; however, the religious issue viewed from a conservative perspective (it contains an edifying figure of a Jesuit, Father Manrique, confessor of the upper classes, which would be unthinkable in Galdós or Clarín) plays a much more important role than the adultery itself. Galdós’s works are much more interesting. In Lo Prohibido, female adultery is considered from a rare narrative viewpoint: the lover’s perspective, a situation that is only found in Dostoevsky’s The eternal husband. Through first-person narration, José María Bueno de Guzmán, a bachelor, analyzes his successive adulterous relationships (two consummated, one in the tentative stage) with his three married cousins, to come to the conclusion — a Don Juanesque conclusion — that desire lies in prohibition. The curious viewpoint adopted by Galdós distorts the moral discourse in favor of the lover, thus effectuating a divergence from the Flaubertian mold. In La de Bringas (That Bringas woman, 1884), we witness Rosalía’s “fall,” already insinuated in the previous novel, Tormento (Torment, 1889). Rosalía’s pretentious desire to overcome the mediocrity around her and her empty existence that consists of buying things (such a present-day bourgeois curse) lead her to commit adultery with Pez, which satisfies her repressed sexuality and represents the hope of finding a banker to expunge her debts. Once again, as is common in the novel of adultery, the economic issue is central. In Fortunata y Jacinta (Fortunata and Jacinta, 1886–87), we witness what Ricardo Gullón calls a “shifting triangle” (1970, 137): Juanito-Jacinta-Fortunata, Fortunata-Maxi-Juanito, JuanitoAurora-Fortunata, Fortunata-Maxi-Feijoo. The guilty conscience is proportional to the degree of closeness to the models in the etiquette manuals. Jacinta, the bourgeois lady, feels much guiltier about her unprofessed attraction for Moreno-Isla than Fortunata does about her double adultery. Furthermore, for her, a “wild woman” who slurps raw eggs, her real “man” would always be Juanito, not Maxi, and she feels she has betrayed her lover, not her legitimate husband. 4.

“I llavors, mig confessant la calaverada, tractà d’obtenir el perdó sostenint, com a teoria, que l’adulteri de l’home, passatger així i en viatge, és quasi natural i no enclou cap gravetat, puix no sol dur conseqüències” (Oller 1994, 2:80).

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative247 La incógnita (The mystery, 1888) and Realidad (Reality, 1889), which function as a set, are Galdós’s two clearest novels of female adultery. The first is an epistolary novel. Manuel Infante writes 41 letters to an unknown recipient about his experiences in Madrid. In them he discusses the “mystery”: the possibility that his cousin Augusta is unfaithful to her husband Tomás and the rumors about the possible identity of her lover. He also discusses the mysterious death of Federico Viera. Later we will learn that Federico Viera committed suicide, full of remorse for having betrayed his friend, because he was Augusta’s lover. The second is a novel in dialogue. Manuel Infante receives it from the anonymous recipient of his previous letters and, effectively, the “mystery” is revealed to give way to “reality”: Augusta’s dissatisfaction, because she can tease no communication from the righteous man that is her husband. “If he’d just speak to me in human language, which might move my heart and my conscience, then he could make some kind of impression on me; but such ethereal matters weren’t made for me, I’m molded in sinful clay” (Pérez Galdós 1992, 238).5 Augusta is an unorthodox female character in this gallery of adulteresses, a free spirit who survives her “fall” without punishment, while it is her lover who dies. As Josefina Acosta de Hess (1988, 65) points out, this is not the only time Galdós reverses the rules in these novels, which point toward a more fin-de-siècle ideology than a naturalist one: Federico Viera is a complex soul, an homme fragile, who goes against bourgeois codes of behavior. He gives his sensual side to the “honest” woman — Augusta — and his soul to a prostitute, Leonor “la Peri,” who serves as a confidante and lends him money. Everything in Realidad is a role reversal: Augusta is strong and Federico is weak and has money problems which, like they did to Emma Bovary, will push him to suicide. Augusta is the “new woman,” who does not consider adultery from a man’s point of view; for her it is not something completely reprehensible but rather a remedy for paralyzing idleness and routine. Adultery offers her the possibility of experiencing surprise: Blessed be the unexpected, for we are indebted to it for the few pleasures of existence. Were we perhaps born for this immense tedium of a good position, of having our affections measured out like our rent? No. There’s some reason why You’ve given us the capacity to imagine, to feel, there’s some reason why we’re souls who love open spaces and wish to roam a bit through them. I don’t find it the least bit amusing, this social pattern, this stupid ban on the great beyond. And the worst of it is that a meticulous, puritanical education molds us to this life, disfiguring us, just as a corset disfigures our body. Thus we learn hypocrisy, and we look for compensation for our boredom by bringing into our lives some secret element, something hidden from the view of even those nearest us. To have a secret, to mock society, which tries to meddle in everything — it’s an essential recreation for our corseted, repressed, girled souls… Without a mystery, the soul becomes emaciated. (Pérez Galdós 1992, 43–44)6 5.

“Si me hablase en lenguaje humano, que moviera mi corazón y mi conciencia, me impresionaría; pero estas cosas tan etéreas no se han hecho para mí, amasada en barro pecador” (Pérez Galdós 1942, 922).

6.

“Bendito sea lo repentino, porque a ello debemos los pocos goces de la existencia. ¿Hemos nacido acaso para este tedio inmenso de la buena posición, teniendo tasado los afectos como las rentas? No, para algo nos habéis dado la facultad de imaginar y de sentir, por algo somos un alma que ama los espacios libres y quiere dar un pasito por ellos. Este compás social, esta prohibición estúpida del más allá no me hace a mí maldita gracia. Y lo peor es que la educación puritana y meticulosa nos amolda a esta vida, desfigurándonos lo mismo que el corsé nos desfigura el cuerpo. De este modo aprendemos la hipocresía y buscamos la compensación al fastidio, trayendo a nuestra vida algún elemento secreto, algo que no esté a la vista ni aún de los próximos. Tener un secreto, burlar a la sociedad, que en todo quiere entrometerse, es un recreo esencial de nuestras almas con corsé, oprimidas, fajadas… Sin misterio el alma se encanija” (Pérez Galdós 1942, 833).

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This is without a doubt one of the most interesting — and modern — reflections that we can find in Spanish novels of female adultery, and very far removed from misogynist Proudhonian positivist discourse. Opposite the modernity of Galdós’s two novels, and despite being their exact contemporary, José Mª de Pereda’s La Montálvez (1888) is a much more conventional novel. From the antinaturalist side of the polemic, Pereda presents female adultery as one more example of the eroding of aristocratic customs by the ethical values of the highlanders of his other novels or of the urban petty bourgeoisie. The story of Verónica Montálvez, a good soul but gone astray due to a bad upbringing and the vices of her class, married to banker Mauricio Ibáñez but lover of (and mother of a bastard daughter by) her childhood flame, the rakish Pepe Guzmán, is a typical tale of a woman’s “fall.” Three years earlier, in 1885, Leopoldo Alas “Clarín” had published the two volumes of La Regenta, whose protagonist, Ana Ozores, is without a doubt Emma Bovary’s closest sister in Spanish literature. In his novel, Clarín brings together the two most important themes of the naturalist novel: the carnal sins of men of the cloth and female adultery. The product of this union, through poor, unhappily married Ana Ozores, whose husband could be her grandfather, and who is torn between Álvaro Mesía, a small-town Don Juan, and the ambitious and all-powerful Canon Fermín de Pas, who hates the cloth that he views as a prison, is the perfect novel. In it, one theme completes the other to draw a faithful portrait of the misery of provincial bourgeoisie. In La Regenta, Clarín’s Krausism tempers the rigour of the naturalist discourse. The fact that it is a novela de tesis (didactic novel) does not oblige us to accept its conclusions, and this freedom given to the reader to draw his or her own conclusions, as well as the surprising, almost open ending, gives the text a much more modern tone than its contemporaries — for Ana does not die; after the sexton’s humiliating kiss while she is unconscious on the cathedral floor, she is reborn, and although we can imagine her “social death” in Vetusta, other possibilities open up for her, now a rich widow. Much good scholarship has been written on La Regenta, so let us add only a brief note on the importance of the other women in the novel. Ana Ozores does not live in the absolute interior and (practically) social isolation of Emma Bovary; she socializes, has friends and servants, but, following classical patriarchal discourse, Clarín constructs these “auxiliary” women as friends/enemies. Obdulia Fandiño and Visitación Castro, the former a happy widow and presumed former adulteress, the latter an inveterate but mainly scandal-free adulteress, are active agents in their friend’s “fall.” The traditional reading is that both wish to reduce Ana to their level out of envy, but regardless of the fact that that was certainly the moral discourse of the author in 1885, today we can read this “alliance of women for evil” in another way. The case of Petra, the unfaithful servant, is different. An analysis of this extremely interesting character would lead us to study the position of the female servant, more specifically the lady’s maid, in the nineteenth-century literary imaginary. They are complicit maidservants, like Emma’s Félicité, or Margarida, Ludovina’s servant in Alves & C.ª (Eça de Queirós); enemy maidservants like the terrible Juliana in O Primo Basílio (Eça de Queirós) or Petra, who betrays her mistress and unleashes disaster. Lastly, one final exceptional female character dominates La Regenta: doña Paula, Canon Fermín de Pas’s mother, the woman who creates a man. Stronger and harder than her strong and hard son (there is no impression that she is a caricature of a castrating woman who dominates a weak man), doña Paula has made Fermín and she will not let any woman that she cannot control ruin her work. The Fouché (opportunist) of Vetusta, the man who knows all through confession, must also answer to someone.

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative249 Clarín’s second novel, Su único hijo (The only child, 1891), which is much less read than La Regenta and which was published posthumously in 1901, is fundamental to our understanding of the author’s evolution from one ethical and aesthetic discourse to another, from the naturalist to the fin-de-siècle. We can see something similar in the work of Eça de Queirós (which Clarín knew and appreciated) between O Primo Basílio and Alves & C.ª. More than a hundred years after its publication, Su único hijo is still difficult to interpret. Some aspects, like the anti-romantic satire and the vagueness of the setting, resist classification. Su único hijo heralds narrative forms of the Generation of 1898 and anticipates symbolist and fin-de-siècle elements. One such element is the ideological distortion of the topic of female adultery through, basically, the absence of any punishment for its protagonist. The fin-de-siècle evolution frees the narrator from moral obligations and permits the creation of counter-values that allow an ironic perspective on something that thirty years earlier was considered a scourge. We must situate the social and gender role reversal of the main characters within the context of this system of counter-values: Emma Valcárcel is always presented with the traits belonging to masculine gender stereotypes, while her husband Bonifacio Reyes takes on feminine characteristics, such as putting feeling before reason, total submission to his wife, even financially, and lack of initiative in all spheres, including the sexual. Emma, on the other hand, has talent, imagination, energy; masculine qualities which, altered in her by her “perverse nature,” become degraded. In this new context, Bonis and Emma’s double adultery with the Italian opera singers and the highly doubtful paternity of Emma’s son do not create drama, but instead play out in vaudevillian tones. After the turn of the century, novels of female adultery in the naturalist style continued to be published, some of which descended into a mannerism of the theme. The clearest example is Armando Palacio Valdés’s La espuma (Froth, 1902), which, curiously, agrees with Alarcón’s thesis that adultery is not an individual sin, but rather, a collective one. With elements that herald The blue angel, Palacio Valdés constructs the “cautionary tale” of Clementina, who has a string of lovers until she seduces the professor Raimundo Alcázar, whom she ridicules and ruins with expenses that he cannot bear. Also in 1902, Vicente Blasco Ibáñez published Cañas y barro (Rods and mud), an unorthodox novel within this corpus. Its setting is that of a rural, regionalist drama, far removed from the urban world of novels of adultery, since, among other things, the essential motive of women’s idleness is absent. The brutal sequence of the relationship between Neleta, married to old man Cañamel, and Tonet — love, pregnancy, attempted abortion, infanticide, remorse, Tonet’s suicide — is of a different savagery than the psychological drama of Bovarism. As of that date, we can still find novels of female adultery, especially in Catalan literature, which offers two high quality texts, Miquel Llor’s Laura a la ciutat dels sants (Laura in the city of the saints, 1931), and Josep Maria de Sagarra’s Vida privada (Private life, 1932). But they no longer conform to the realist-naturalist ideological paradigm that we have chosen as the basic structure of this study. The ideological and literary changes and, above all, women’s social evolution in the first thirty years of the twentieth century, were so significant that these novels are not late followers but rather, representatives of another society.

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The novel of adultery in Portugal The most important Portuguese contributions to the novel of female adultery are, without a doubt, those of José Maria de Eça de Queirós (1845–1900). Obviously, the most well-known is O Primo Basílio (Cousin Bazilio, 1878), but female adultery is also the main theme of the short story “No moinho” (At the mill, 1880) and the novella Alves & C.ª (c. 1885). As a secondary theme, we find it in the countess’ romantic passion in O Mistério da Estrada de Sintra (The Mystery of Sintra, 1870); in Os Maias (The Maias, 1888) (Maria Monforte and Tancredo — the adultery which, like original sin, will set the drama in motion — Carlos da Maia and the Countess of Gouvarinho, João da Ega and Raquel Cohen, and even the first phase of the relationship between Carlos da Maia and Maria Eduarda); in the masterful letter from Fradique Mendes’s A Correspondência de Fradique Mendes (The correspondence of Fradique Mendes, 1889) to Ramalho Ortigão about Madame Mendibal’s affair; and in A Ilustre Casa de Ramires (The noble house of Ramires, 1897), where, depending on the reader’s capacity to think ill, Gracinha Ramires — whose husband recalls Charles Bovary in many ways — and André Cavaleiro consummate or merely flirt with an adulterous relationship. But Eça de Queirós is not the only naturalist writer who considers female adultery a worthy theme for social and literary analysis. Let us also highlight Júlio Lourenço Pinto’s (1842–1907) Margarida (1879), José Augusto Vieira’s (1856–90) A Divorciada (The divorcee, 1881), and, especially, Abel Botelho’s (1855–1917) O Barão de Lavos (Baron Lavos, 1891). These followers of naturalism, as they are sometimes called, represent the most direct line of succession of Zola’s arguments. Their Spanish equivalents would be the “radical naturalist” authors, like Eduardo López Bago, or those who dissolve naturalism into erotically-tinged decadentism, like Felipe Trigo. It is no coincidence that the latter translated Abel Botelho’s works. O Primo Basílio is the most Flaubertian of the novels of adultery. A didactic novel, it faithfully follows the basic guidelines: critiquing the idleness of bourgeois women who have no place in the world, especially when they have no children and are approaching the age of 26–28 like the protagonists of these novels, which at that time was seen as the end of youth, and showing how, under those conditions, a woman of weak and superficial education, full of fantasies about love born from reading romances, can easily fall into the arms of any Don Juan — in this case, such a low-calibre one like Basílio — and bring disgrace upon her family. Despite the title, which would suggest a focus on the lover, O Primo Basílio is really about Luísa, the adulterous wife, who will fall into temptation when her husband’s absence on a long voyage coincides with the reappearance of the cousin who was her first love. As the obvious embodiment of a thesis, Luísa is a weaker character than Emma Bovary, Ana Ozores, and Anna Karenina. Eça de Queirós himself did not consider this novel, which made him famous, to be his best work. Despite this, O Primo Basílio has three highly original characteristics that warrant a special place for it in the corpus. The first is the nearly explicit stating of female desire; in this respect, Eça de Queirós is the most daring writer of novels of adultery. In his novel there are far fewer modest ellipses than in others; the physical relationship is a reality, and when Luísa begins to tire of her lover, he wins her back not with flowers or poems but by showing her a new sexual technique. But we must not think that this characteristic of Luísa is treated positively. On the contrary, her ability to feel desire makes her even more monstrous. In O Primo Basílio there is a famous passage:

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative251 He knelt down and, taking her feet in his hands, he kissed them; then […] he respectfully kissed her knees; and then he murmured a request. She blushed and smiled and said: “No! No!” And when she emerged from her ecstasy, she covered her scarlet face with her hands, muttering reprovingly: “Oh, Bazilio!” He twirled his moustaches, very pleased with himself. He had taught her a new sensation; he had her in the palm of his hand! (E. de Queirós 2003, 220–21)7

Miguel de Unamuno (1947, 387) commented on it: The first thing I read by Eça de Queirós, as a boy, was O Primo Basilio. That was when Zola was all the rage here. I cannot recall the aesthetic, artistic effect that it had on me… I can only recall that when I got to a certain passage and a sentence that, over the years, resounded in my memory, I caught my breath. But that was not pure emotion from artistic aesthetic.

This passage was surely one of the reasons why the book was hidden in the second row in bourgeois libraries. But the most interesting aspect of the novel, the important narrative development comparable to the union of two themes in Clarín’s novel, is the description of the rivalry between two women, between Luísa and her servant Juliana. The latter, an old maid, bitter and ill, sick of serving idle ladies, obsessed with her fear of the poorhouse, sees in her mistress’ weakness the possibility of earning some money that would make her old age a little more comfortable. Blackmail dominates the second half of the novel and Luísa, who, like all women of her class, has no money of her own, can only find a provisional solution through “women’s currency”: dresses, small home furnishings, domestic privileges. Little by little we witness a reversal of the mistressservant roles and Juliana’s great victory is to be able to read the newspaper stretched out on the chaise-longue while Luísa irons and starches. In 1880, two years after the publication of O Primo Basílio, Eça de Queirós returns to the same theme in the short story “No moinho,” published in Lisbon’s O Atlântico. The story is much more orthodox a naturalist text than the previous novel — even in the Zolaesque details of the syphylitic husband and the sickly children — and faithfully follows its ideological discourse. Maria da Piedade, considered “uma senhora-modelo” (Queirós 1880, 51; a model wife) by all, but unhappily married from the beginning, nonetheless accepts her role with resignation and a sense of duty — she has not yet been perverted by reading — until the arrival of Adrião, her husband’s cousin, a healthy and strong man — and, furthermore, a novelist — who will awaken her desire with a kiss that takes place at a symbolically relevant location: next to the water mill. This is a recurring issue in medical treatises of the period: the need to keep women’s feelings dormant to avoid the onset of hysteria. After the kiss there is nothing to be done; Maria da Piedade begins to read novels and to reject her husband and children, that is to say, she turns into a monstermother, an unnatural being. The inevitable consequence is her “fall.” And Eça concludes with a magnificent summary of the social disaster to which adultery has led:

7.

“Ajoelhou-se, tomou-lhe os pezinhos entre as mãos e beijou-lhos […] beijou-lhe respeitosamente os joelhos; e então fez-lhe baixinho um pedido. Ela corou, sorriu, dizia: —Não! Não!— E quando saiu do seu delirio tapou o rosto com as mãos, toda escarlate, murmurou repreensivamente: —Oh Basilio! Ele torcia o bigode, muito satisfeito. Ensinara-lhe uma sensação nova: tinha-a na mão!” (E. de Queirós 1878, 230).

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Elena Losada Through her mistake she scandalized the whole town. And now she leaves her house messy, her children dirty and bleary-eyed, in tatters, not having eaten for hours, her husband moaning abandoned in his bedchamber, all the cloths and plasters on top of the chairs, everything all out of place, to go after the man, a hateful, greasy rascal, with a plump, flabby face.8

In Os Maias, female adultery is the backdrop to the main theme, incest as a representation of social paralysis. The most “Bovaresque” of these cases is that of Carlos da Maia with the Countess of Gouvarinho, an unhappily married aristocrat, idle, of “strong temperament” (another key expression of the period), who goes from “ideal flower” to “bother” when her lover tires of her. When desire disappears, revulsion appears and this process repeats itself with Maria Eduarda. At that point, Eça de Queirós gives us one of the best descriptions in all of nineteenth-century literature of the essential dichotomy of femininity, wild woman versus angel: Arising out of the depths of his being, it was as yet very tenuous, but nonetheless perceptible, a feeling of satiety, of repugnance, ever since he had shown she was of the same blood as him […]. It was, more than anything, the perfume that wrapped about her, which hung among the bed curtains and clung to his skin and his clothes, and which had once so excited and now so enervated him — the previous night, he had drenched himself in eau-de-cologne to get rid of it — And then it was her body, which he had always adored as if it were some ideal marble statue, but which suddenly seemed to him, as it was in reality, too large and muscular, with the thick limbs of some barbarous Amazon, with all the copious beauties of some animal made for pleasure. Her soft lustrous hair now, unexpectedly, had for him the coarseness of a lion’s name. The way she moved in bed yes, even tonight, had frightened him, as if hers were the movements of a wild beast, slow and careful, tensed and ready to pounce. […] And yet, as soon as the last sigh had died on her lips, he would begin to retreat imperceptibly to the edge of the bed, feeling strangely frightened. Huddled in the sheets, lost in the depths of an infinite sadness, he would escape into thoughts of another possible life, far from there, in a simple, sunny house, with his wife, his legitimate wife, a flower of domestic grace, small and shy and modest, who would not utter such lascivious cries or use such intoxicating perfume. (Queirós 2007, 580)9

8.

“Por causa dele escandalizou toda a vila. E agora deixa a casa numa desordem, os filhos sujos e remelosos, em farrapos, sem comer até altas horas, o marido a gemer abandonado na sua alcova, toda a trapagem dos emplastros por cima das cadeiras, tudo num desamparo torpe —para andar atrás do homem, um maganão odioso e sebento, de cara balofa e gordalhufa” (E. de Queirós 1880, 63).

9.

“Era, surgindo do fundo do seu ser, ainda ténue mas já perceptível, uma saciedade, uma repugnância por ela, desde que a sabia do seu sangue!… […] Fora primeiramente aquele aroma que a envolvia, flutuava entre os cortinados, lhe ficava a ele na pele e no fato, o excitava tanto outrora, o impacientava tanto agora —que ainda na véspera se encharcara em água-de-colónia para o dissipar. Fora depois aquele corpo dela, adorado sempre como um mármore ideal, que de repente lhe aparecera, como era na sua realidade, forte de mais, musculoso, de grossos membros de amazona bárbara, com todas as belezas copiosas do animal de prazer. Nos seus cabelos de um lustre tão macio, sentia agora inesperadamente uma rudeza de juba. Os seus movimentos na cama, ainda nessa noite o tinham assustado como se fossem os de uma fera, lenta e ciosa, que se estirava para o devorar… […] apenas o último suspiro lhe morria nos lábios, aí começava insensivelmente a recuar para a borda do colchão, com um susto estranho: e imóvel, encolhido na roupa, perdido no fundo de uma infinita tristeza, esquecia-se pensando numa outra vida que podia ter, longe dali, numa casa simples, toda aberta ao sol, com sua mulher, legitimamente sua, flor de graça doméstica, pequenina, tímida, pudica, que não soltasse aqueles gritos lascivos e não usasse aquele aroma tão quente!” (E. de Queirós 1888, 666–67).

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative253 In Alves & C.ª, a short novel that it is difficult to date, since it remained unpublished until 1925, although in his critical edition, Luís Fagundes Duarte points to 1887 as a possible date, we again find women’s adultery as a main theme of one of Eça de Queirós’s works of fiction. Ten years after writing a didactic novel that strictly observed Flaubert’s rules, Eça creates its opposite, a novel of adultery focused on the betrayed husband’s reaction, which does not contain any punishment for the adulteress, thus inverting the narrative and ideological paradigms of the theme and developing the texts in an aesthetic milieu full of fin-de-siècle echoes. Alves & C.ª narrates the effect that the discovery of his wife’s infidelity has on a loving husband and his subsequent accommodating reaction which leads him, encouraged by his friends, to play down the objective facts and their rational explanation — what he has seen and read — to the point that he accepts that perhaps he did not see what he saw nor read what he read, for the sake of the stability of his business, of perfectly boiled eggs, and of the love he feels for his wife. From the get-go, this focus on the husband — Godofredo — is atypical in the novel of adultery. We only find it in Tolstoy’s Kreutzer sonata, in which Pozdnyshev tells a stranger on a train how and why he killed his unfaithful wife. But what in Tolstoy’s work is a psychological portrait, a social critique, and a tragedy, in Eça’s is comedy, almost vaudeville. In many aspects, as I have said above, there are links between Alves & C.ª and Su único hijo. The most obvious is the reversal of the male and female roles in the central couple. Godofredo is indolent, emotional, and chaste, which would fulfill a traditional representation of femininity: “Godofredo, honest married man, did not have any of those escapades: his life had always been domestic, with no adventures.”10 He is also “novelistic,” that is, it is he, like Bonis, who makes existence into literature. Other motifs reinforce this “feminization” of the character, unthinkable with the character of Jorge, Luísa’s husband. Godofredo suffers from an illness that in nineteenth-century narratives is associated with feminine hypochondria: migraines and headaches. This overload of feminine traits contributes to the ideological and aesthetic subversion in the text, much closer to fin-de-siècle style than we observe in Clarín’s novel. In Alves & C.ª, positivist models no longer operate: reason is not infallible, nor progress infinite, nor men such men, nor women such women. The nineteenth century, which had begun under a “sadist” model, in which the homme fatal, the romantic hero, brings about the destruction of the angelic woman, ends, as Mario Praz notes, under a “masochist” model (Praz 1991, 182). Femmes fatales dominate the fin-de-siècle: Salome, Carmen, and Cleopatra are the protagonists of a decadent universe. Ludovina, who does not reach the heights of these greatly depraved women, nonetheless presents some characteristics of the stereotype: she is tall, her eyes are dark, her hair black and curly, and her body that of a barbarian queen, a complete description of the “phallic woman.” The evolution between O Primo Basílio and Alves & C.ª shows us how female adultery, in addition to being a literary theme, was above all an ideological discourse. In realism-naturalism, positivist discourse, steeped in Proudhon and Michelet, constructs adultery as a social scourge; in fin-de-siècle aesthetics it loses this transcendent character to become the analysis of an individual psychological case or, as we have seen in Alves & C.ª, a comedy. In A Correspondência de Fradique Mendes, the most fin-de-siècle of Queirós’s works, we find a return to the theme from the decadentist perspective. We are speaking of Fradique Mendes’s letter to Ramalho Ortigão, 10. “O Godofredo, homem casado e honesto, não tinha destas anedotas: a sua vida fora toda doméstica, sem aventuras” (E. de Queirós 1994, 114).

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in which he insinuates, in Wildean tones, that adultery — if it remains secret — can make three people happy: the wife, the lover, and the husband: Chambray felt immense pleasure and great vanity […] Madame tasted a new or different sensation, which appeased her, settled her, allowed her to return more calmly to the monotony of her home and to be useful to her family […] And the Argentine received another unexpected and triumphant assurance of how loved he was and how happy a choice he had made.11

Along with these examples from Queirós, we should also consider, despite the obvious difference in quality, other works of Portuguese naturalism, among them the aforementioned Margarida, by Júlio Lourenço Pinto; A Divorciada, by José Augusto Vieira; and, more tangentially, Abel Botelho’s O Barão de Lavos, which was hopelessly scandalous, because the husband and wife share the same lover. Margarida and A Divorciada share a different point of view than the usual one on the topic, since it is not the wife’s adultery, but rather, that of the protagonist’s husband (and his married lover) that is the focus of the plot. Margarida is the innocent wife of the adulterous Fernando, but it is she who will receive the inevitable punishment reserved for adulteresses, while Adelina, Fernando’s Bovaristic accomplice, kicks off a promising career going from lover to lover with absolute impunity. It is a curious variant of the theory of punishment that we have been looking at: the sins of Fernando and Adelina’s adulterous relationship are projected — and fall — onto the former’s innocent wife. In reality, Margarida is a romantic character, and that is the ambiguity of Lourenço Pinto, who was paradoxically the greatest proponent of theoretical reflection on naturalism in Portugal, through his writings — more interesting than his fiction — published in the Revista de Estudos Livres. They are partly positivist, determinist, and evolutionist ideals, but there is also a certain fixation with idealist models. In A Divorciada the core is made up of the intermittent relationship between Alberto — the husband — and Anita (a bit like in Fortunata y Jacinta), a relationship that leads Ermelinda — the wife — to separate from her husband, accepting the social marginalization that her decision incurs, and to embark on a new, borderline legal relationship with Commander Faria. As we see, this perspective does not exactly follow Flaubert’s pattern either. It is an interesting novel on the feminine condition. Ermelinda is an idle romantic, but when she is faced with reality, the reality that was carefully hidden from women to the point that it was considered inappropriate for them to read the newspaper, she is capable of an act of incredible courage, though it leads to her social marginalization. Abel Botelho was the most orthodox of the Portuguese naturalists. Like Felipe Trigo and Eduardo López Bago in Spanish literature, he represents a particular current of naturalism-decadentism that has notable erotic content. O Barão de Lavos is the most well-known of his novels from the “Social Pathology” project. Starting on the third page, the title character, Sebastião Pires de Castro, Baron of Lavos, is presented, with no mistake or suspense, as a pederast seeking teenage boys among the riffraff of Lisbon. This last descendant of a morbid line of depravity is married to Elvira, a rich bourgeois who prefers Madame Bovary to Lamartine’s poetry. The 11.

“Chambray passou por um imenso prazer e uma imensa vaidade […] Madame experimentou uma sensação nova ou diferente, que a desenervou, a desafogou, lhe permitiu reentrar mais acalmada na monotonia do seu lar, e ser útil aos seus […] E o argentino adquiriu outra inesperada e triunfal certeza de quanto era amado e feliz na sua escolha.” (E. de Queirós 1890, 151–52).

The novel of adultery in Peninsular realist narrative255 passion that the baron feels for Eugenio, one of his street conquests who is proof that decadence does not affect just the upper classes, will slowly sink him into spiritual, physical, and financial misery. Unable to leave him, he shows him off in public and takes him home to his own house. There, Eugenio sees the baron’s other life, his wealth and his wife, and he desires both. He seduces Elvira — who is ignorant of his relationship with her husband — and ends up ruining both by demanding more and more money to the point of ruining them. When Elvira discovers her role in this triangle she runs away. Eugenio also leaves the baron, who is now destitute, and ends up living off the charity of strangers, until he dies in the street. Despite the harshness of the storyline, the novel offers interesting psychological portraits and a vivid picture of Lisbon street life, enlivened by a variety of linguistic registers, from street slang to clinical terminology. But Botelho’s intention was not limited to showing female adultery as a scourge; his disturbing thesis is that many worse things can happen to society. For this reason, Elvira is nothing more than a poor bit player in her husband’s degeneration, not the centre of the narrative. In summary, this would be the basic corpus for a study of the novel of adultery in the Iberian Peninsula and of the issues that come out of this theme, each of which merits monographical treatment with the goal of highlighting the ties and the divergences between the different Peninsular realisms. As an accompaniment we would need to study closely, more than has been done already, the various paths of reception of Spanish authors in Portugal (translations, critical references, public reaction, etc.) and of the Portuguese in Spain, as well as the relationships between these novelists. We know that Clarín was reading O Primo Basílio in 1883 — hence before La Regenta — and he warmly recommended it to Galdós. Between Clarín’s admiration and that of Doña Emilia Pardo Bazán, who was the writer of her generation most familiar with Queirós’s work, it is unlikely that Benito Pérez Galdós was ignorant of Eça de Queirós’s work, although in his writings he has given no indication that he knew it. On the other hand, the Portuguese author certainly knew and admired Don Benito, whom he mentions favorably in A Correspondência de Fradique Mendes. Thus, the study of the theme of female adultery in the realist novel of the Peninsula is far from finished, despite the already significant bibliography on the topic. The analysis of such a great obsession of the period can yet offer us many elements for reconstructing the literary, social, and above all, ideological history of the second half of the nineteenth century.

Writing of the self Iberian diary writing Enric Bou and Heike Scharm Iberian autobiography When inquiring about autobiographical writing in the Iberian Peninsula one cannot but take into account the infamous words by a major Spanish philosopher, who expressed total distrust in the ability of his fellow countrymen to practice this kind of writing. José Ortega y Gasset argued that “memoirs are a symptom of complacency in life […]. The scarcity of Memoirs [in Spain] ought not to surprise us if we realize that the Spaniard considers life to be a universal toothache!” Commenting on this assertion, James Fernández stated “this is curious and specious reasoning, no doubt, which mysteriously attributes silence to the victim of a toothache” (qtd in J. D. Fernández 1992, 2). Ortega’s justification does not hold water when confronted with reality. A closer look at what has been published in the last thirty years, since the disappearance of the dictatorships in Portugal and Spain, reveals a sudden increase in publication of autobiographical texts. Among them, diaries account for more and more of the activity of senior and young writers alike. The advent of the internet and the development of blogs have sparked a new boom in autobiography. During the years of political oppression there was no refusal to write autobiography, but rather an impossibility of doing so. Censorship and other obvious editorial difficulties led to a severe restriction of texts, such as autobiographies, since they might reflect too closely the reality experienced by the Portuguese and Spaniards alike, and were thus perceived as contrary to the political interests of Salazar’s or Franco’s regime. This is, unfortunately, the condition of literatures that have to develop under harsh dictatorship conditions. As Silvia Molloy once pointed out, the lack of autobiography in Spanish-speaking countries should be related to an attitude of self-protection adopted by most writers. In a politically unstable climate, most writers do not dare to write the “truth” about themselves, but instead prefer to write autobiographical books under the umbrella of history or fiction (Molloy 1991, 2). Anna Caballé also underscored the fact that in Spanish literature authors have been negating for decades the existence of autobiography in their own country. This attitude founded such unfortunate assertions as that by Ortega y Gasset about the inherent “psychological” impossibility of Spanish authors writing any autobiography at all. This has created a historically absurd negation of the existence of this genre, a negation that appears even more incongruous when one takes into consideration the abundance of such texts in Spanish literature (Caballé 1995, 42–43). In the Iberian Peninsula, because of decades of living under extremely repressive political regimes, autobiographical writing has had a difficult existence. Nevertheless, there have been significant examples of this kind of writing (see Bou 1993, Caballé 1995, Gabilondo 2006a, Rocha 1992). Ángel Loureiro, in his book on Spanish autobiography, has stated that “a considerable number of autobiographical works have been published in Spain in the last two centuries, yet only a small number of them veer from a safe memoristic pattern” (2000, xiv). At the end of the book, doi 10.1075/chlel.29.22bou © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Iberian diary writing257 he elaborates on this distinction between autobiography and memoir, and concludes that Spanish autobiography “is often about a self that regulates how much it is convenient or appropriate to say; but it is usually a self assured of itself, rarely one that sees itself as a problem” (2000, 185). When Loureiro writes “problem,” he is referring to a self that opens up to the Other, in the Levinasian sense, and constitutes itself with regard to this Other through an ethical bond of responsibility. Loureiro hints at the reason for this memoristic tradition that consistently refrains from problematizing the self: “If the most compelling Spanish autobiographies have been written against the grain of the nation, against Spain’s past and past Spains, the issue must be the national subject and its history” (A. G. Loureiro 2000, 186). The recent modernization of Spain has brought an end to this autobiographical void. According to Joseba Gabilondo, “the eruption of autobiographical literature in the Spanish Basque Country points in exactly the opposite direction […] autobiography emerges when the national subject experiences crisis instead of modernization.” If we accept that Spain is experiencing modernization without modernity, “we are witnessing complex negotiations to write and think beyond the horizon of a national (modern) subject: a post-national horizon where the national continues to linger as problem rather than as utopia or solution” (Gabilondo 2006b, 184).

Diary writing Diary writing is a (sub)genre which focuses its attention on trivialities. It tends to ponder upon every day minor details in a repetitious and almost obsessive manner, expressing thus a strong curiosity about such details. Writers live and they observe their own actions, paying special attention to such central activities as reading and writing. Diary writing is a paradoxical genre, both within the margins of autobiography and yet central to it, because in most cases it reflects both intimacy and public domain. When a writer starts keeping a journal this means that a particular day, some of what happened has a particular importance, and it is deemed worth saving for future reference. This type of discourse always belongs to a series, creating — by presence or absence, repetition and negation, utterance or silence — a web of implied meaning, for both the writer and the reader. People hardly ever write or read an isolated journal entry out of context, out of a series, because when reading a journal readers pay special attention to the series, to repetition, variety, and fidelity to certain ethical or literary principles. Days keep piling up in their monotony, yet within the wholeness of a series, what seemed at first insignificant or irrelevant all of a sudden acquires a special richness and intensity. In most cases, and in clear opposition to memoirs or other kinds of autobiographical writing, diary entries are closely connected to marking time with exactitude and to contemplating apparently insignificant events. It is through reading a series that one becomes aware of its hidden secrets and rhythms. In this respect diaries are very similar to epistolary collections. The author of a diary writes for a particular reader: the writer herself. This intended intimacy explains why so many diaries never reach print, and why, when reading them, we experience the sensation of eavesdropping on somebody else’s most intimate thoughts. The fact that an author decides to publish a private diary raises many questions about his real (or his original) intentions. Was it meant — was it written — to be published in the first place? To what extent should we then expect to be reading a manipulated text? A diary is written to oneself, and any further circulation of a

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text of that nature is rather extraordinary. Therefore, it is reasonable to consider the possibility of some degree of manipulation by the author, as many critics have rightfully pointed out, among others, Pla, Gil de Biedma, Pessoa. It is characteristic of diary writing to spell out a poetics of the genre. Diarists muse about their task. Critics such as Roland Barthes and Maurice Blanchot have echoed how difficult it is for a diary to mature into a real literary text, to become a livre (book). In fact, diary writers propose a theory of the diary as a marginal text within the limits of literature. And this puzzlement creates the environment for fruitful reflection, including a vindication. Henry Amiel, one of the best diarists of all times, who has had many followers in the Iberian Peninsula, wrote in his diary: “A private diary does not teach you the art of composition. It teaches neither to speak or write, nor to think with order and methodically. It is a psychological relaxation, a recreation, a gourmandise, a lazy activity, posing as work.”1 Besides what may sound like a negative opinion on diary writing, Amiel’s statement expresses his own reflections about the genre. In fact, he would consider his Journal intime (Intimate journal) an essential tool for keeping his own sanity; not only to register events but to enable the author to establish a sort of continuity in his life, “to preserve his spiritual itinerary,” and to take on “the struggle against life’s dissipation and dispersion,” as he wrote on January 31, 1853 (“la conservation de [son] itinéraire spirituel, la lutte contre la dissipation et la dispersion de la vie”; Amiel 1976–94, 407). Many critics have expressed their skepticism about diaries’ literary value. Roland Barthes, for example, commented on this issue in Roland Barthes par Roland Barthes, a sort of autobiographical text. According to the French critic, diary writing implies limitation and a reduction in quality with regard to the integrity of a literary text. Contrary to an elaborated and well-organized kind of discourse, a dissertation, a school activity with a well-established status in French schools, a diary opens the doors to “fragments,” which in his view is the most characteristic element of this genre. As Barthes was trying to justify the main topic in Gide’s diary, he announced that: “the (autobiographical) journal is nowadays completely discredited. Cross translation: in the seventeenth century, when people started writing them, without any reluctance, people would call them a ‘diaire’: diarrhea and secretion.” He concluded defining the diary as: “Production of my fragments. Contemplation of my fragments (correction, polishing, etc). Contemplation of my excrements (narcissism).”2 This extremely negative vision of diaries equates its writing to diarrhea, and female vaginal secretion, rejecting it thus as a valid literary genre. Going beyond Barthes’s provocation, his remarks encourage us to observe more carefully certain characteristics of diaristic writing, such as its periodicity, intimate situation, and the difficulties of its being read and understood outside of a private circle. New forms of diary writing — blogs — take Barthes’s scatological metaphor a step further, leading us to never-seen boundaries: from the WC’s solitude, to the Net’s solitude. That is, diaries have advanced from a cemetery of words where nothing is read, to a literature for the living dead, or today’s “blogomania.” 1.

“Le journal intime n’est pas une préparation à l’enseignement ni à l’art de la composition. Il n’apprend ni à parler ni à écrire, ni à penser avec suite et méthode. C’est un délassement psychologique, une récréation, une gourmandise, une paresseuse activité, un faux-semblant de travail” (1976–94, 158).

2.

“Le ‘journal’ (autobiographique) est cependant, aujourd’hui, discrédité. Chassé-croisé (chassé-croisé (cross translation): au XVIe siècle, où l’on commençait à en écrire, sans répugnance, on appelait ça un diaire: diarrhée et glaire.” “Production de mes fragments. Contemplation de mes fragments (correction, polissage, etc). Contemplation de mes déchets (narcissisme)” (Barthes 1975, 99).

Iberian diary writing259 Iberian diary writing Until recently, diary writing in the Iberian Peninsula has been relegated to a secondary role in the literary system. But it is worthy of remark that this well-known type of autobiographical writing was of significant importance in at least two of the literatures written in the Peninsula. In both Portugal and Catalonia, this supposedly minor genre has been practiced by major figures and, in fact, some of its better-known works outside their linguistic domains have been diaries. This is the case, obviously of Fernando Pessoa and Josep Pla. What is most remarkable is the number of works that belong to this area: Juan Larrea’s Orbe (1990) or J. V. Foix’s project Diari 1918 (1956), come immediately to mind (for an erratic albeit incomplete account of diary writing in Spanish and Catalan, see Trapiello 1998; Romera Castillo 2004 proposes a detailed summary of recent scholarly publications). Samuel Pepys started a literary genre with his Diary. Written between 1660 and 1669, he provides a startling insight into Cromwell’s London, with special attention to cultural activities (music) but also sensual pleasures (women and taverns). Johann Kaspar Lavater, the founder of physiognomy as science, wrote Geheimes Tagebuch von einem Beobachter seiner selbst (Secret journal of a self-observer), published in two volumes in 1772–73. Lavater combines a close selfexamination with a very pious Christian philosophy. Contemporary to these European examples, one can locate similar texts in the Iberian Peninsula, such as those of Catalan diarist Baró de Maldà (a contemporary of Spanish writer Leandro F. de Moratín) or Portuguese writers Antero de Quental (if we consider as diary his letter exchanges with Oliveira Martins) and Cavaleiro de Oliveira, who wrote Recriação periódica (Periodical recreation) a sort of diary, as well as several travelogues. In Galicia and Euzkadi, one finds only a few examples of autobiographical writing. Basque literature has paid little or no attention to autobiography, thus tragically stressing the marginality of this kind of writing. One can mention marginal texts such as those written by Jesuit Manuel de Uriarte, Diario de un misionero de Mainas (Journal by a missionary from Mainas, 1768), Julián de Salazar Garaigorta, Acaecimientos de un diario de navegación (Events from a journal of navigation, 1896), or Lore de Gamboa (Carmen Balzer), Diario de mar y cielo (Journal of sea and heaven, 1966). From a more literary perspective, it is worth mentioning Diario íntimo (Intimate journal) by Miguel de Unamuno, written while he was living in Alcalá de Henares between April 9 and May 28, 1897. In this diary, Unamuno expresses a deep crisis in his religious beliefs. While defending his position against Catholicism, he reevaluates Christianity. Diario íntimo constitutes a particularly insightful examination of the religious Unamuno. He confesses his appreciation of atheism: “I have arrived at atheism, even at imagining a world without God…” (“He llegado hasta el ateísmo, hasta imaginar un mundo sin Dios…”). But he accepts nevertheless the fact that he cannot live without God. He even manipulates his old Communist beliefs when he speaks about a “Saint Communism” (“Santo Comunismo”), which allows people to participate in “one and the same God, the communion in spirit” (“un mismo Dios; el comulgar en espíritu”; Unamuno 1998, 20). According to one of the authors cited in this Diario íntimo — S. Felipe Neri — he writes: “God’s true servant does not know any other fatherland but heaven” (“El verdadero siervo de Dios no conoce más patria que el cielo”; Unamuno 1998, 23). In recent years there have been several examples of autobiographical writing (in Spanish) by Basque authors. According to Gabilondo, “the reconstruction of the present at a time of national and global destabilization only seems to be possible in these autobiographies by voiding the past and

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continuously looking for new possible models of identity” (2006, 218). Faced with an autobiographical story deemed impossible to narrate, these writers opt for textual violence. Thus, the rejected past, which can be considered a void of history, becomes like an amputated limb, which still can be felt, and the writer, as Savater explains, becomes a mutilado with a prosthetic memory: “Far from San Sebastian I feel as if I were mutilated, but what I have lost keeps throbbing as if more present than what is present, and I cannot adjust to the use of crutches or false limbs. Until I do go back to Donosti, I keep limping.”3 A leading Galician writer, Castelao, wrote his Diario 1921 (Journal 1921), which was partly published in Nós (Us), during a government-funded trip across Europe. He traveled through France, Belgium, and Germany, interested in the art scene of those countries. The result is a diary that pays profound attention to art, one of Castelao’s main preoccupations. As stated by one of his critics: “as he traveled, he expressed with more confidence his rejection of artistic new tendencies and articulated a fondness for folk art and painting from old ages” (Ventura 2004, 666). Castelao recognized the value of his trip as an educational adventure: “Here in Europe everything I saw, observed, and experienced made me a stronger man of thought, reassured me about my convictions and refusals as an artist rooted in my land and spirit.”4 Diario 1921 is, unquestionably, a collection of Castelao’s aesthetic responses to art styles, painters, and masterpieces by Picasso, Brueghel, and Rubens, among many other artists. But it is also a visual representation of the diary mode as an extension of a creative self. Castelao’s visits to museums and exhibitions combine with his own drawings and artistic projects. In fact, Diario 1921’s modernity parallels the cultural pluralism that Castelao finds in Paris. His definition of internationalism (Castelao 1977, 129) explores universalism and regional differences; individual and collective history; and personal identity and pluralism. Certainly, Diario 1921 shows a collage design that mirrors the Galician writer’s most private life (e.g., personal and family concerns), his cosmopolitan subjectivity, and his aesthetic values: “At last I received my wife’s letter, and I am so glad. I am so happy that I believe that this is the reason why I made the color drawing in the next page. The truth is that this diary is so full of different things.”5 It is not a secret that many diaries had been kept unpublished for years, and that most texts were only published in their complete version at the end of dictatorship, or after many years had passed since the events portrayed. Self-censorship, for moral or political reasons, has played a significant role in the diffusion of these texts. Diary writing has two significant phases: when it is written and the moment of being sent to the press. Josep Pla (1897–1981) or Jaime Gil de Biedma (1929–90) are excellent examples of the manipulation typical of diary writing. Pla wrote his diary El quadern gris between 1918 and 1919, but it was not published until 1966, almost fifty years after its inception. Gil de Biedma wrote a diary in 1956, but it was published in two different moments, 3.

“Lejos de San Sebastián me siento mutilado pero lo perdido sigue latiendo como más presente que lo presente y no me acomodo a muletas ni miembros postizos. Hasta que vuelvo a Donosti, no dejo de cojear” (Savater 2003, 116).

4.

“Eiquí, en Europa, canto vin, canto observéi, canto paséi trocóume nun home máis forte de pensamento, máis seguro nas miñas afirmacións e as miñas negacións de artista enraizado na Terra e no esprito” (Castelao 1977, 311).

5.

“Por fin xa recibín carta da mina dona i estou contento, moi contento. Tanto que coido que foi por iso que fixen ise dibuxo en côr que deixo pegado na páxina seguinte. A verdade é que iste xornal vai ben cheo de cousas diferentes” (Castelao 1977, 197).

Iberian diary writing261 in sharply different versions. In 1974 he published a harshly censored selection of his diaries under the title Diario del artista seriamente enfermo (Diary of a seriously ill writer), and in 1991, right after his death, a longer version of his diary was published under the title Retrato del artista en 1956 (A portrait of the artist in 1956). The text of the second version bears little similarity to the former. In the first diary he only published the second part of that year, which consists of notes about long days spent recovering from a malady. He had just returned to Spain after an extensive job-related visit to the Philippine Islands. After a brief stay in Barcelona, he falls sick with tuberculosis and under medical orders spends time at the family house near Segovia. The notes from the first part of the year are filled with sexually explicit accounts of his life in Manila, while at the same time he chronicles his poetry writing. In the second part he narrates about his, in Carlos Barral’s words, literary fratría (brotherhood) and about a sedentary life writing an excellent book on Jorge Guillén’s poetry. This was a particularly important year for him, as he decided to work seriously in the family business, Tabacos de Filipinas. During the same timeframe he was keeping a close interest in poetry writing and criticism. Retrato del artista en 1956 is both a confession and the chronicle of a literary activity of utmost importance for the cultural future of the country. This amazing diary narrates first-hand the Spanish literary renewal process under Franco’s dictatorship. Gil de Biedma compiles two very different diaries (in the same year) according to the place where he is located. While he is in the Philippines he writes extremely frank confessions about his sexuality and many adventures in gay parts of the city. Back in Spain and living in very bourgeois atmosphere he writes only about literary friends, and literary projects. The first half deals with his sexuality and self-pity as a colonialist. In the second one, between Barcelona and La Nava, sexual abstinence opens the door to his literary success. In-between the two, there is a businesslike report written in a very dry bureaucratic prose, which is the text he was supposed to write while in the Philippines. This apparently boring work provides the reader with a clue about the author’s leisure time on the island, and his difficulties to adapt to his previous life when he is back in Barcelona. The diary justifies his life-long drama as a lawyer working in the family business, while trying to have a real life in literature, as a poet and critic. According to Clara Rocha, a similar phenomenon takes place in Miguel Torga’s diary: “in certain episodes in the first few volumes the subject, a mature man, adopts strategies (focalization by the main character) which help him recreate a child’s world view” (Rocha 1992, 50). A diary is a text without limitations or models, and therefore it is always struggling to find its own definition. Diarists ask themselves about the status of what they write. Josep Pla argues this way: “September 5. — I ask myself if this diary is an absolutely intimate text. The first problem one faces is this: is it possible to express one’s intimacy? I mean by this to express intimacy, clearly, coherently, in an intelligible way. Pure intimacy, one can think, must be pure spontaneity, that is an instinctive and incoherent segregation. If we disposed of an efficient language and lexicon in order to be able to portray this segregation, there would not be a problem. But we must accept that there is no style or lexicon effective enough to express sincerity.”6 This is neither a rhetorical nor 6.

“5 de setembre.— Em demano sovint si aquest dietari és sincer, és a dir, si és un document absolutament íntim. La primera qüestió que es planteja és aquesta: ¿és possible l’expressió de la intimitat? Vull dir l’expressió clara, coherent, intel·ligible, de la intimitat. La intimitat pura, ben garbellat, deu ésser l’espontaneïtat pura, o sigui una segregació visceral i inconnexa. Si hom disposés d’un llenguatge i d’un lèxic eficaç per a representar aquesta segregació, no hi hauria problema. Però el cert és que no existeix ni un estil adequat a la sinceritat ni un lèxic eficient” (Pla 2005, 306–07).

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a cynical question. It is the most crucial dilemma a diary writer faces, and it is even more acute when he is rewriting his own text composed fifty years earlier. In a similar way, Pere Gimferrer often reflects upon what he is doing in his somewhat postmodern Dietari (Diary). In “Escriure un dietari” (To write a diary), he muses: “Fake diary, true diary? Public or intimate? Those of us who write a diary know that this is as risky and as ambiguous and as seductive and as weak as all of literature. Or as life.”7 He goes as far as to propose literature, that is the act of writing a diary, as a substitution for life: “Here we have the distinction between a narrator and a writer. A narrator tells us about life events. A writer may tell us about life events but he also explains himself. He portrays himself through somebody else: the human being who is born during the reflective act implied by writing a diary. What interests us about Amiel’s diary is precisely Amiel himself, not what his opinions were, but who he was. As Heraclit once said: ‘I looked into myself.’”8 Torga puts the problem in these terms: “A diary is not this. A real diary is the one of that Englishman who, so that nobody may read him, even invented a code. What would I write if I knew how to write in cipher!”9 Andrés Sánchez Robayna, a Spanish poet and author of excellent diaries, wrote about the distinctiveness of this kind of literature. After reading Jünger’s diaries, he compared them to some well-known names who also wrote diaries: the Goncourt brothers, Virginia Woolf, Lev Tolstoy, Léon Bloy, etc. Sánchez Robayna makes then a useful distinction between plot-oriented and philosophical diaries. These two conceptualizations of a literary genre allow him to introduce another reflection by Juan Ramón Jiménez, always in the margins, who had advised that: “In reality, a poet, mute or writing, is an abstract dancer and if he writes it is because of a daily weakness, because he should not write. He who should write is the man of letters.”10 This is another way of expressing a similar preclusion like the one stated by Maurice Blanchot (1959) against the literary status of diaries. In fact, Juan Ramón Jiménez never wrote a real diary. Instead, he looked for a poetical solution in Diario del poeta recién casado (Diary of a recently married poet, 1917), a series of poems written during a trip he started on January 16, 1916, when he went to the United States to meet his wife to be, Zenobia Camprubí. The closest to a diary are the notes taken by his good friend Juan Guerrero Ruiz (1998 & 1999), in Juan Ramón de viva voz (Juan Ramón, his own words). Diaries have played a significant role in Catalan literature. In the seventeenth century, Jeroni Pujades wrote a magnificent diary (Casas Homs 1975–76). John Elliott has explained how he discovered it in 1956 at the University of Barcelona library in the manuscript section. Historian Jaume Vicens Vives cried “Sensacional, Elliott, sensacional” (Great, Eliott, great!) when told 7.

“Dietari fals, dietari ver? Extern o bé intern? Els qui escrivim un dietari sabem que això té tant de risc i tanta d’ambiguïtat i tanta de seducció i tantes de defallences com tota la literatura. O com la vida” (Gimferrer 1996, 152).

8.

“Heus ací, potser, descompartida la zona fronterera entre el cronista i l’escriptor. El cronista explica coses, l’escriptor, encara que expliqui coses, s’explica a si mateix. Es fa una mena de retrat per persona interposada: la persona que neix per l’acte reflexiu d’escriure un dietari. El que ens interessa del dietari és, precisament, Amiel: no el que opinava, sinó el que era. Ja ho deia el vell Heràclit: ‘Jo em vaig sotjar a mi mateix’ ” (Gimferrer 1996, 151–52).

9.

“Um Diário não é isto. Diário é o daquele inglês que, para que ninguém o lesse, até uma cifra inventou. O que eu diria aqui se soubesse escrever em cifra!” (Torga 1999a, 42–43).

10.

“En realidad, el poeta, callado o escrito, es un bailarín abstracto, y si escribe, es por debilidad cotidiana, que, en puridad, no debiera escribir. El que debe escribir es el literato” (Sánchez Robayna 2002, 148).

Iberian diary writing263 about the finding. This anecdote illustrates the difficult life of these kinds of texts. Pujades’s diary is crammed with items of local, and broader, news, and interlaced with mordant comments on people and events. As Elliot (2001) points out, “perhaps what most impressed me about Pujades’s reactions, and to some extent counteracted the revisionist and iconoclastic approach I had been adopting when confronted with over-romanticized interpretations of the 1640 revolt, was the love of the motherland [pàtria] that runs through the diary, and the author’s passionate feeling for Catalan liberties.” Reading this diary, one perceives a deep sense of pàtria, both at the local level (his home town was Castelló d’Empúries) but also regarding the Principality as a whole, as a community held together by a common faith, and by shared history, laws, and traditions. It is especially interesting that by reading this diary a historian such as Elliott could reassess his views of Catalonia and Castile. Pujades issues a revealing comment in 1626, the year in which Philip IV and Olivares visited the Principality for a disastrous session of the Corts, as he writes: “I think it to be true that his Majesty does not know what Catalonia is, nor do his advisors understand it, or maybe, out of excessive respect, they do not dare to tell him.”11 Baró de Maldà’s diary is of a very different nature. Over a span of more than fifty years, between 1769 until his death in 1819, he writes more than seventy handwritten volumes, which bear witness to the transformation of Catalan society. Under the title Calaix de Sastre (Taylor’s box), nobleman Rafael d’Amat de Cortada i de Senjust, baró de Maldà, mixes personal and popular views about society, mores, the state of Catalan language, culture, and literature, offering us a unique perspective on those years. In the twentieth century three diarists stand out: Josep Pla, Marià Manent, and Pere Gimferrer. More recently, other authors have very succesfully published this kind of writing: Feliu Formosa, Enric Sòria, Toni Mollà, Ponç Pons. Josep Pla, Marià Manent, and Pere Gimferrer have published noteworthy examples of this genre of discontinuity. Their diaries Quadern Gris (Gray notebook), Vel de Maia (Maia’s veil), and Dietari (Diary) are good examples of how a well-established author mediates, through a diary, the reading of their own work. This is most noticeable in the case of Pla. He manipulates dates of his youth, as one can appreciate thanks to Xavier Pla’s recent facsimile edition. When reaching the age of seventy, Pla prepares himself for history. He uncompromisingly modifies his own text, manipulating chronological information. By comparing both versions one realizes that he has gone as far as to rewrite the original text from 1918–19, embellishing stylistically or morally many entries (Pla 1999). All references to bordellos, for example, are suppressed in the 1966 edition. He does not hesitate to change the beginning of the diary to a more significant date: that of his eighteenth birthday. In El quadern gris, Pla explains his upbringing between two different worlds: his hometown of Palafrugell, a backward provincial town opposed to — in a way — cosmopolitan Barcelona. In his anotations he systematically expresses his opinions about the Catalan literary world and of his education as a writer. His voice is that of an adult, not that of the young Josep Pla from 1918. There is a systematic process of rewriting, that is of reduction and re-elaboration. Reduction occurs because as an adult he knows perfectly well how to trace what is most poignant about a certain experience, or he devises a way to stress a day’s distinctiveness. Thus, at an advanced age, he amplifies the text through re-elaborating and fictionalizing events experienced in his youth. A perfect example could be this journal entry from 1919. In the original 11.

“Yo crec ser axí, que ni sa Mt. sap lo que és Catalunya, ni los qui lo aconsellan, ho entenen, o per respectes humans, no le y gosan dir” (Casas Homs 1975–76, 58).

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diary he writes: “I saw a magnificent young woman in Ferran and Llibreteria streets. She had big mouth and lips, bright eyes, dark hair, very sheer stockings.”12 In the 1966 version, this brief annotation becomes a much more elaborated text: I like in the afternoon to wander through the streets of old Barcelona. In Ferran street and Llibeteria street I have seen a magnificent young woman. She had dark hair, sensuous lips, brilliant teeth, bright eyes, surprised like those of a gazelle, abundant and rounded thighs under sheer stockings. Legs have to be long and the calves full. Les mollets bien fournis! to put it in French. Magnificent creature, glorious Astarte!13

This reference to Phoenician goddess Astarte, the goddess of reproduction and fertility, culminates the intense re-elaboration of his remembrance, converting a very short note into literature through auxexis or hyperbole. One cannot but suspect that this is what happens to many diarists. They are tempted to manipulate the text while preparing it for the press. Many decide to intervene through self-embellishment and self-censorship, which has a strong impact on the final version. Maybe a writer’s merit consists in part in his ability to hide this bleak process. In Portugal, Fernando Pessoa stands out as the most original writer of this kind. Penned under one of his heteronyms, Bernardo Soares, he wrote Livro do Desassossego (The book of disquiet), of which he only published a few entries before his death. In the Livro do Desassossego, he displayed his theory and practice of heteronyms. The alias closest to his personality was Bernardo Soares. In a very famous letter to Adolfo Casais Monteiro from January 13, 1935, Pessoa discusses the genesis and characteristics of his three principal heteronyms: “This tendency to create another world within me, identical to this one but with different people, has never left my mind. This tendency went through various phases of which this is one, which has already become of age. A witty remark which had been burgeoning within me, would occur to me, completely alien, for one reason or another, about who I am, or who I suppose I am.”14 Diary writing permits him to develop his illusion of the self, one of the remarkable achievements of his literary project. It is through the combination of heteronyms that a complete series of alternative lives are presented to the reader. As he explains in the same letter: “My semi-heteronym, Bernardo Soares, who, by the way, in many respects resembles Alvaro de Campos, always appears when I am feeling tired or drowsy and appears in such a way that his qualities of reasoning power and inhibition are a little erratic; his prose is a continuous reverie. He is a semi-heteronym because, although not being my personality itself, it is not different from mine, but simply a mutilation of it. It is I less the reasoning power and the affectivity. His prose, with the exception of the tenuous quid which is present in mine, is the equal of mine, and from the language point of view the Portuguese is 12.

“He vist una noia magnifica al carrer de Ferran i Llibreteria: boca i llavis grossos, ulls brillants, morena, mitjes finissimes” (Pla 2005, 48).

13.

“M’agrada —a la tarda— de divagar pels carrers de la Barcelona vella. Al carrer de Ferran i al de la Llibreteria, he vist avui una noia magnífica: morena, boca i llavis molsuts, dents lluminoses, ulls brillants, astorats, de gasela, anca rodona i turgent, cama tibant i llarga sota les mitges fines. La cama ha de ser llarga i la pantorrilla plena. Les mollets bien fournis! —per dir-ho en francès. Animal magnífic, gloriosa Astarté!” (Pla 1966, 477).

14.

“Esta tendência para criar em torno de mim um outro mundo, igual a este mas com outra gente, nunca me saiu da imaginação. Teve várias fases, entre as quais esta, sucedida já em maioridade. Ocorria-me um dito de espírito, absolutamente alheio, por um motivo ou outro, a quem eu sou, ou a quem suponho que sou” (Pessoa 1986a, 181).

Iberian diary writing265 exactly the same.”15 Interestingly enough, this process is very similar to that of the Catalan poet J. V. Foix and his combination of two personalities: “Josep Vicenç Foix,” owner of a pastry shop in an elegant Barcelona neighborhood, and “J. V. Foix” (Bou 1988 & 1993), a metaphysical and somewhat surrealist poet. His Diari 1918, with fewer textual problems than the Livro do Desassossego, discusses this intricate personality, especially in sections like Gertrudis and KRTU (Foix 1981). Pessoa projects into this Lisbon accountant a diarist’s dilemma: “I have not existed for a long time. I am extremely disquieted. Nobody distinguishes me from who I am. I feel myself breathing now as if I practiced a new or overdue thing. I am beginning to be conscious of being conscious.”16 Pessoa’s dairy contains only a few dates. In the words of Richard Zenith, he mixes “symbolist and diary texts” together with “philosophical reflections, aesthetical, sociological comments, literary opinions, aphorisms” (Soares 2005, 19). Moreover, the Livro do Desassossego follows a systematic program intended to provide a substitution of life by the writing of it: “And so, contemplators of statues and mountains alike, enjoying both books and the passing days, and dreaming all things so as to transform them into our own substance, we will also write down descriptions and analyses which, when they’re finished, will become extraneous things that we can enjoy as if they happened along one day.”17 Soares’s obsession with writing is poignant. On many occasions he recognizes that writing is a substitute for life: “I am, in large measure, the selfsame prose I write. I unroll myself in sentences and paragraphs, I punctuate myself. In my arranging and rearranging of images I’m like a child using newspaper to dress up as a king, and in the way I create rhythm with a series of words I’m like a lunatic adorning my hair with dried flowers that are still alive in my dreams.”18 Pessoa’s attitude, expressed through the words of his heteronym Bernardo Soares, can easily be put in relationship with Josep Pla’s obsession with living through his Quadern gris. Life and reality become a literary matter, re-lived through re-writing his own youth. Similarly, Gil de Biedma’s diary has an unexpected value. While composing notes and letters, he reads himself as he lives: “to read my own writing is even more fun than to write about me” (“leerme me divierte todavía más que contarme”; Gil de Biedma 1991, 32). Originally, he confesses, his diary’s objective is to train him to write prose, but he realizes that the diary is helpful as a self-control tool (1991, 66). He even goes so far as to assume that his diary is provoking 15.

“O meu semi-heterónimo Bernardo Soares que aliás em muitas coisas se parece com Álvaro de Campos, aparece sempre que estou cansado ou sonolento, de sorte que tenha um pouco suspensas as qualidades de raciocínio e de inibicão; aquela prosa é um constante devaneio. É um semi-heterónimo porque, não sendo a personalidade a minha, é, não diferente da minha, mas uma simples mutilacão dela. Sou eu menos o raciocínio e a afectividade. A prosa, salvo o que o raciocínio dá de ‘ténue’ à minha, é iqual a esta, e o português perfeitamente igual” (Pessoa 1986a, 182).

16. “Há muito tempo que não existo. Estou sossegadíssimo. Ninguém me distingue de quem sou. Senti-me agora respirar como se houvesse praticado uma coisa nova, ou atrasada. Começo a ter consciência de ter consciência” (Soares 2005, 156). 17.

“E assim, contempladores iguais das montanhas e das estátuas, gozando os dias como os livros, sonhando tudo, sobretudo, para o conventer na nossa íntima substância, faremos também descrições e análises, que uma vez feitas, passarão a ser coisas alheias, que podemos gozar como se viessem na tarde” (Soares 2005, 46).

18.

“Sou, em gran parte, a mesma prosa que screvo. Desenrolo-me em períodos e parágrafos, faço-me pontuações, e, na distribuição desencadenadadas imagems, visto-me, como as crianças, de rei com papel de jornal, ou, no modo como as crianças, de rei com papel de jornal, ou no modo como faço ritmo de uma série de palavras, me touco como os loucos, de flores secas que continuam vivas nos meus sonhos” (Soares 2005, 200).

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events in his life (1991, 182). As is the case of many diary writers, there is a degree of self-analysis. For example he compares the kind of diary he wrote while in the Philippines and the one he is writing in Barcelona. Back in Spain he lacks control over his life, because between dealing with his job and his friends he recognizes that he does not have a life (1991, 130–31). Another Portuguese diarist, Miguel Torga (1907–95, literary pseudonym of Adolfo Correia da Rocha) is the author of another gigantic diary project. Most of Torga’s literary work falls under the category of autobiography, starting with his life-long project, A Criação do Mundo (World’s creation, 1937–78), a masterful rendition of his life — a life — divided into seven “days,” which covers events, life episodes very similar to those of Torga, beginning with his adolescence in Brazil, a long period of imprisonment, and finishing with the April Revolution of 1974. As Rocha puts it, with his entire work he has built an “autobiographical space”: Rampa (1930), “Vicente” in Bichos (Bugs, 1940), a play O Paraíso (The paradise; 1949, 1977), and, of course, the Diários (Journal, 1941–83). He wrote sixteen volumes of his Diários, which he started publishing in 1941. Blessed with an interest in classic literature, Torga writes like “Hesiod’s contemporary” in Sophia de Mello Breyner’s words, mixing in other interests, such as a preoccupation with God’s death and the abuse of human beings under totalitarian regimes. In his work one can feel the discovery of new paths towards beauty, paying special attention to human relationships. Each volume of his diary is written under the protection of Amiel’s sentence: “Chaque jour nous laissons une partie de nous-mêmes en chemin” (Every day we lose something of ourselves on the road). The entire sixteen volumes are saturated with a sense of deep sadness. In Rocha’s words, “[t]he history of an existence, the draft of an individual image, the situation of the self (microcosmos) in the world (macrocosmos), are common topoi in the Diário and A Criação do Mundo” (1977, 274). He muses about sincerity in many entries. Torga’s combination of several autobiographical modes allows him to show more poignantly the diary’s specificity. Due to its fragmentation, the diary illustrates the self in its unity and complexity (Rocha 1977, 289). On many occasions he has harsh judgments on his fellow countrymen: “There is no way. Even though we try, an argument in this Portuguese land always ends with howls and insults. It is a pity that this spiritual presumptuousness goes together with our old apostolic tendency: if there is a castaway, we have to save him.”19 Torga’s diary is also a good source for reading his poetry. Notes about readings and travels, general opinions about the time and human essence, are ornamented with many poems: the result of a day’s work. Vergílio Ferreira, who since 1980 has published nine volumes of his Diário Conta-Corrente (Journal bank-account, 1980–94), provides another good example of how significant diary writing is in Portuguese contemporary literature. This writer states at the beginning of the fourth volume: “I will begin […] But in reality it is a real beginning. To eliminate all references to daily banalities, to reduce myself to what is meaningful […] I will try something else. Reflections, impressions of what may have happened, ideas, which I wish had existed.”20 José Saramago, a

19. “Não há maneira. Por mais boa vontade que tenham todos, uma discussão nesta santa terra portuguesa acaba sempre aos berros e aos insultos. […] E a desgraça é que a esta presunção do espírito se junta ainda a nossa velha tendência apostólica, que onde sente um náufrago tem de o salvar” (Torga 1999b, 127; Coimbra, November 20, 1940). 20. “Vou começar […] Mas na realidade é verdadeiramente um começo. Eliminar todas as referências ao banal quotidiano, reduzir-me ao que de si tem alguma significação […] irei tentar outra coisa. Reflexões, impressões do que de importante possa ter acontecido, ideias que valha a pena existirem” (V. Ferreira 1980–94, 4:129).

Iberian diary writing267 much more political kind of writer, has published five volumes of his Os Cadernos de Lanzarote (Lanzarote notebooks), which he started writing when he moved to the island of Lanzarote, after one of his books was censored. Saramago’s diary expresses his intimate views on Portuguese and world politics, ethical issues, the diffusion of his work, and the island where he lives. With his characteristic irony he calls his activity “an exercise of cold narcissism” (“um exercício de narcisismo a frio”), and he adds: “This Narcissus that today is contemplating himself in the water will destroy tomorrow the image he contemplates.”21 Natália Correia (1978) has also published a diary worth mentioning: Não Percas a Rosa: diário e algo mais (25 de Abril de 1974–20 de Dezembro de 1975) (Don’t miss the Rosa: Journal and something else), which is also related to a political event in Portugal: the April Revolution of 1974. *** Diary writing started as a literary genre in countries such as the United Kingdom and Germany. In the early twentieth century it became a major genre in the Iberian Peninsula, especially in Portuguese and Catalan literatures, and one could say that those writers helped reinvent the diary. This is a well-kept secret, which deserves more attention. A comparative reading of these texts both illuminates diary’s diversity as a literary genre and provides a complex view about the state of Iberian literature: rich and sophisticated, the autobiographical works of Portuguese and Spanish authors are pushing further previous innovations by European literatures. Blog writing may take this contribution yet another step further.

21.

“este Narciso que hoje se contempla na água desfará amanhã com a sua própria mão a imagem que o contempla” (Saramago 1994, 13).

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature Euriell Gobbé-Mévellec In 2011, the Spanish branch of the Langenscheidt publishing house launched a new series of children’s books, printed on recycled paper, “Los libros verdes de Mucki” (Mucki’s green books). Using words and pictures, Trinidad Andrés Labrador and Kim Amate tell the story of a puppy who witnesses the dangerous impact the behavior of some environmentally careless human beings can have on his friends. A whole range of activities are embedded in this environmentally friendly tale: drawing, coloring, solving mazes and riddles, undertaking scientific experiments, etc.; a set of didactic tools meant to turn reading into an active, participatory, and playful experience in order to impress a lasting message in the young reader’s mind. Such an approach perfectly illustrates the current trend in children’s publishing. On the one hand, texts and images are combined to serve a didactic purpose, following in this way a centuries-long legacy of educational principles (take, for example, the theories of the following educationalists: Comenius, first half of seventeenth century; John Locke, late seventeenth century; or Mme de Genlis, late eighteenth century) that purport to associate these two media to promote understanding, concentration, memory, and the pleasure of reading. All this goes to show that a genuine tradition and, subsequently, a genuine know-how, both technical and pedagogical, exists in this field. On the other hand, the coexistence of the two “voices” in the book and the hybrid nature of the series lead us to rethink the very form of the narrative, of the writing, of the book itself, in a perspective proper to our post-modern era. The child is invited to write, to draw, to physically make the book her own as if it were an activity book, in other words to become a co-author of the work. Thus several reasons combine to explain the joint presence of texts and images in children’s books, some issuing from an age-old tradition suggesting that this combination is inherent to youth literature, while others, in closer relation to post-modern aesthetics, show how naturally this media embraces the concerns found more generally in the world of art and communication. Could we therefore draw the conclusion that, at a time when some are heralding the fatalistic decline of written media and the gradual disappearance of books, the “miracle solution” is to be found in children’s literature? A first analysis of the situation shows that this branch of publishing is doing well, very well even. Since the beginning of 2000, more than 10,000 titles for young readers (new books or new editions) have been published every year in Spain, accounting for roughly 16% of the titles printed annually in Spain, all publishing sectors included (10,135 titles in 2003, 10,690 in 2004, 11,756 in 2005, 12,178 in 2006, 10,524 in 2007, and 11,701 in 2007; see Departamento de Investigación de Mercado 2009, 10). Children’s literature amounts to about 10% of the overall publishing market, a figure which is constantly on the rise (€272.3 million out of a total of €2.793 billion in 2003, roughly 9.75% of the market, and €327 million out of a total of €3.185 billion in 2008 — a market share of about 10.27%; Departamento de Investigación de Mercado 2009, 12), just as is the average book price in that sector — the average price for a children’s book — rose from €7.1 in 2003 to €7.8 in 2006 and reached €9.4 in 2008 (Departamento de Investigación de Mercado 2009, 12), while the average price for books in general has been stagnating since 2006. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.23gob © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature269 Numerous awards are granted in the field of children’s literature, either nationally or locally, which can also be considered a sign of good health. A study led by Lola Miñarro in March 1995, and based on data from the Fundación Germán Sánchez Ruipérez and the Consejería de Educación y Ciencia, listed 54 representative awards. The award ceremonies, often convened by the publishing houses themselves, seem to be part of their promotion plan; as such, their objectivity might be questioned. However, their being so numerous still vouches for the vitality of this sector and for the attention it gets. Moreover, some of these awards are created by institutions, marking the willingness of the political world to encourage this publishing field. Even though sales were expected to decrease in 2010, and the number of titles published annually since 2006 has remained stable, this publishing sector seems to resist better than others to the double threat of the economic crisis and the development of digital media and multimedia: Crisis. Digital Edition. Internet. Hacking. Computers in classrooms. Budget cuts. Staff cutbacks. E-book selling platforms… The year 2009–2010 was opening onto threatening prospects that did not turn out to be as catastrophic as expected […]: profuse production, interesting publishing propositions, and even a certain media craze about children’s literature, thanks to some cinema blockbusters. (V. Fernández 2009, 17)

This chapter aims at trying to understand how books adapt to the mutations of a society dominated by a screen culture. Has the book industry challenged its models in order to integrate innovations, or have the latter found in books a favorable field of expression, an almost “natural” development? Can we describe publishing houses, authors, and illustrators as being “visionary” and sufficiently daring and creative to manage to put a new value on books in the face of the tide of multimedia and interactive images? To begin to answer these questions, some significant aspects of this “civilization of the image” should be looked at to see how they influence children’s literature. The growing emancipation of images in children’s books Illustrations are probably the most immediate form of interaction between texts and images in children’s books, or at least they are the first that come to mind. A certain number of tensions, however, lurk behind this apparently obvious notion, betraying how complex the interplay between the visual and the verbal really is in children’s literature, and the force field the former represents. The contemporary term “to illustrate” has retained two key meanings from the original Latin verbs lustrare (to perform an act of purification by fire), and illustrare (to brighten or to shed light on): on the one hand, to supply a text with adornments so as to brighten it; on the other hand, to shed light on the meaning of a text with an explanatory picture. This twofold function of illustrations triggers the first tension in children’s literature, since illustrations play a role that is partly aesthetic, with the will to ornate a text, and partly educational, with a view to explaining the text. Yet another tension lies behind this notion of illustration. If the illustrating picture exists beside a verbal text, with the purpose of shedding new light on the latter, it implies that its only legitimacy rests on the prior existence of the text to which it is bound, merely explaining it or translating it, in an isolated or systematic way, depending on the media and the age of the reader. In that case, however, shouldn’t the presence of the illustration be interpreted as a confession of the text’s shortcomings? A text that is suddenly revealed as being somehow incomplete? A text

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that is, in itself, an obstacle to its young audience and requires mediation? From the all-powerful text that used to express everything and left no place but redundancy for illustrations, to images gradually freeing themselves and suddenly “no longer paraphrasing the text, but investing the page, invading it, challenging it, becoming a parallel text” (Soriano 2002, 910), twentieth-century children’s books have become the privileged theatre for those wishing to witness the reversal in dynamics and understand that the growing importance of illustrations and their ability to invest the text’s narrative devices is symptomatic of the increasing pervasiveness of images in our society. In this regard, there are countless occurrences in children’s books where the illustration divests the role traditionally imparted to the text, mimics the way it functions, endorses its strategies, challenges it, enjoys contradicting it. Some quick examples will suffice to get a glimpse of how far these semiotic games can go. Pictogram albums, for instance, show stylized images inserted in texts because they are easily identified. They epitomize the attempt made by images to compensate for children’s reading difficulties. Pictures substitute themselves for words, copying their linguistic mechanism. They are able to render gender and numbers: the notion of plural can be conveyed through the representation of several similar objects, while gender can become visible thanks to the addition of a gendered attribute to the object. In the tale El Patito feo (López Narváez & Lalana 2006; The ugly duckling), the picture of a white duckling is to be read as patito, that of six white ducklings (patitos), and that of a white duck with long eyelashes, pata. Images, thus forming a rudimentary lexicon, aim at making the acquisition of written language easier for young readers. In other cases the image, going further than merely copying the role of the text, tackles its own semiotic shortcomings and successfully manages to overcome them. The concept of time, of duration, for instance, is not easily visually represented. How can past and future be told with a picture? How to express the optative mood? There are plenty of answers to these questions, some very old, others more recent, and since they are currently the focus of in-depth research, there is presently no need to linger on that topic. Another difficulty would be the following: how to picture an abstraction? An idea or a non-material reality? An image fails to show the tree as a type and will necessarily show it as a singular element, as opposed to the written word which will rather give a definition of it or evoke a tree in particular. What the image can do, however, is, from a singular and subjective experience, gradually work towards generalization and abstraction. It then acts as a go-between in the formation of the child’s thought, standing midway on the path between her egocentric thought and their acquisition of symbolic thought. Many literary works, picture books especially, like El hombre, el árbol y el camino (The man, the tree and the path) by Juan Farias, rely on the micro-tale of objects and singular beings in order to convey, between the lines, the macro-tale of an abstract phenomenon: the history of mankind, the cycle of seasons, death, and so on. The depiction of the negative form or the absence of something is yet another impediment. How to render something that is not there, which by definition cannot be seen? In this regard, it is worth noting that over the past few years, in Spain and in Europe more generally, a writing of the trace, of the print left behind, has been developing. Images simultaneously indicate the former presence and the absence at the time of reading of a being or an object, and leave clues along the pages requiring detective work from the reader in order to follow the thread of the story. A picture book comes to mind, that of Fernando Krahn (2006), Huellas gigantes (Gigantic

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature271 prints), designed entirely — starting from the book’s cover and flyleaves — around the quest for a mysterious animal leaving gigantic footprints behind it in the snow. The growing importance of illustrations in children’s literature is made clear by their impact on spatial organization: picture books have upset the classic layout consisting of a written page followed by a page of illustrations, and they redistribute texts and images according to an all-visual logic, with the double page, and no longer the single page, constituting the new unit of meaning. The text “exhibits itself ” through shape, font, color, size, and disposition within the frame of the book. The media itself takes on meaning, with the work done on shapes, formats, and cover illustrations contributing to the global message. The whole book thus shapes itself into an image. Publishing picture books with no text might represent the ultimate liberation of illustration in the book. Now able, in a picture book, to take on the same functions as text, images could expunge the text, and in so doing challenge the notion of illustration and even that of books and of reading. Is it then possible to “read” a book made of images exclusively? It would be wrong, nevertheless, to assume that the physical disappearance of the text implies the absence of the verbal. It is still present in picture books, but in a different way: the graphic element may unfold from an accessible hypotext, as in the most obvious example of picture books recreating a tale well-known — if not by the young reader, at least by the accompanying adult. Such, for instance, is the recent work of Adolfo Serra (2011) with Little red riding hood. But the picture book can also be unrelated to a prior text and solely articulated around the joint enunciation of the adult and child readers. Images, prone to giving rise to a collective discourse, stated aloud and not engraved in words but forever recreated, seem as such to be reviving the storyteller’s voice. This progressive emancipation of illustrations in children’s literature cannot be separated from the evolution of images, of their status and of visual arts over the last century. The characteristics of these contemporary images have an undeniable impact on children’s literature, an impact worthy of our attention.

All the better to see with, my child Some technological evolutions, deemed true revolutions, have deeply modified the way we look at things, in the literal sense of the term. Even though the invention of optical instruments allowing us to glance beyond what the naked eye can see goes back many centuries (microscopes, astronomic lenses, etc), our century has made a gigantic leap forward in the refinement of these tools, thanks to the advent of quantum physics in the early twentieth century and Einstein’s photon theory. The laser and optical fibre, in particular, gave a new impulse to optical sciences and brought radical changes not only to specialized fields like medical imagery or satellites, but also to practices more directly accessible to the public, like photography (telephoto lenses, digital cameras, etc). What are the consequences of these technological advances on images themselves? These tools allow anyone to perceive what used to be inaccessible to the eye, to explore what used to be invisible. Whether the infinitely small or the infinitely large, these instruments make visible what used to belong to the realm of the imaginary or of abstract mathematical calculation. The X-ray of a fractured limb, the study of the scan of an organ, the image of the micro section of a cell or

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that of the ground of Mars, open up the visual field of the naked eye. Moreover, the potential of images goes well beyond that. Photography has always been used to remember and record things past, but now computer-generated images are even able to prefigure the future, by foretelling the effects of skin aging, for instance. To what extent do these changes influence children’s literature? Though the latter still enjoys imaginary and poetic projections into previously inaccessible realms — what goes on inside the body, between blades of grass, or under the roots of a tree — it has also managed to appropriate this new imagery and put it to playful, scientific, or poetic uses. Thus, optical instruments, numerous in children’s books, are often diverted from their scientific function while nevertheless retaining their primary purpose by becoming the means to access new realities that used to be out of sight. This is the case in the picture book El Catalejo (The telescope, 2009), by Marta Serra Muñoz. In this vertically bound picture book, the optical instrument enables a little girl to see what is at the other end of the mysterious “black hole” located above her bed. The spatial metaphor quickly leads to a poetic catalog, the telescope turning into a magical device giving access to a fantasy universe: “I saw a girafe on stilts, a dromedary with one, two, three… five humps! And a giant squid with ink the colour of the rainbow” (“Vi a una jirafa con zancos, a un dromedario con una, tres…, ¡cinco jorobas!, y a un calamar gigante con la tinta de colores, como el arco iris”; Serra Muñoz 2009, n.p.). In Yo vivía en el fin del mundo (I used to live at the far end of the world, 2007), a picture book by the Galician author Ramón Trigo, it is a lighthouse that takes over the role of visual device and allows a child to peacefully, and with serene curiosity, envisage the unknown realities existing beyond the ocean, thus silencing the apocalyptic discourses and countering the nightmarish visions relayed by ignorant adults. More generally, most informational books display a certain taste for paper devices like die-cuts, slats, or transparent flaps. By opening the window, sliding the slat, or turning the clear acetate sheet, the child discovers what is hidden behind the first seen image: the seed or the worm within the apple, or the chick in gestation inside the egg-shell for instance. For example, the series “Mi Mundo” (My world), “Cuerpo humano” (Human body), and “Historia en acción” (History in action) — from the Madrid publisher SM — address subjects ranging from football to the solar system, through medieval castles and the human gastrointestinal tract, thus introducing young readers to various themes by adopting a fun and active approach to science and knowledge.

Everything, now What the new ICT have also changed forever is the time needed to access images. Our century is one of immediacy. The corollary of the technical feats that have enabled information access is an increasing demand on behalf of the recipients who, facing their television or computer screen, or with their telephone stuck to their ear, have become used to everything happening “live” and can therefore hardly bear to wait any longer. The message must, immediately, catch their attention. The consequence of this “tyranny of the immediate” is that information is first and foremost perceived through the senses or the emotions, to the detriment of the intellect. A piece of information must seduce, move, or impress in order to be retained among the tide of available information. In the field of children’s literature, the most direct consequence of these

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature273 new attitudes is the shrinking of space devoted to text compared to that of images. Seldom are Alice in wonderland or The jungle book published in children’s collections in their unabridged versions today; they are printed in shortened versions such as picture books or comic books. The full texts are reclassified in the teenage or even adult collections. Faced with this reality, some give up, discouraged, believing that children, glued to the television or computer screen, devote themselves exclusively to that hobby and have hardly any attention left to spare on books. Luckily, not everybody shares that point of view. The Spanish playwright and educator Luis Matilla, to name but one, has felt, ever since the 1980s, the need to have his own mode of expression — the theatre — interact with the new forms of communication. In this regard, his prologue to La Fiesta de los dragones (The dragons’ party) constitutes a genuine profession of faith, where the author explains how he has come to think anew about his playwriting based on the new relationship between children and mass media. Clear-sightedly, he recognizes how uncomfortable his mode of expression can be when compared to other, more modern ones: If, for an adult, to sit down in the twentieth row, sometimes gives rise to some comprehension problems, what will happen to a child raised on TV, and used to watching events from the front line and to fine tuning the volume as they please?1

Based on this reflection, he then proposes a new form of theatre, the teatro de animación (animated theatre) which constitutes an important challenge: to reinstate the theatre’s communication pact by adapting it to the audio-visual environment surrounding the younger generations, while at the same time overcoming the drawbacks and excesses of current practices, in particular that of the suspension of critical judgment induced by this immersion into images.

Images: Flow, flux, and movement The idea of movement, of flux, of flow, of dynamics is essential to understanding both the nature of new images and the modalities of today’s communications. The cinema invalidates what used to be one of the traditional oppositions between images (spatial art) and the written word (temporal art) by managing to inscribe movement in the image, by offering a visual continuum to the audience thanks to the succession of images, and by turning images into moving images. This revolution came to modify all other media, leading some to take up the challenge of inscribing movement within the image. Comic strips truly are a sequential art form, the story being told with a succession of images; more specifically, flipbooks could even be considered as media at the junction between the sequential image of comic strips and the animated image of the cinema, since booklet sheets turned quickly are enough to give the illusion that the pictured image moves endlessly. As for children’s books, besides the fact that they get their inspiration from comics’ sequential image techniques, they provide their own range of optical games, from the simple pull-tab to the elaborate pop-up picture books, with movable and three-dimensional 1.

“Si para un adulto permanecer en la fila veinte de un teatro le crea, en ocasiones, dificultades para la plena asimilación del espectáculo, ¿qué no ocurrirá con un niño habituado por la televisión a contemplar los acontecimientos en primera línea y a matizar el volumen según sus necesidades?” (Matilla 1986, 10–11).

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paper architectures. Windows, pull-tabs, pull-downs, and volvelles or wheel charts, allow for simple movements like the course of a star in the sky, the movements of a character or physical changes (eyes closing, tongue sticking out, arms reaching up, and the like). Spanish readers particularly enjoy these books that go beyond the two-dimensional representation and explore the notion of volume, which explains why many translations of pop-up picture books can be found in Spain; very few, however, come from Spain, undoubtedly due to high manufacturing costs. However, it is worth noticing the launch in 2008 of the collection “Leyendas pop-up” (Pop-Up legends) by the Catalan publishing house Combel, made up so far of four titles — La Leyenda de San Jorge (The legend of Saint George), Los Reyes Magos de Oriente (The three wise men), El Arca de Noé (Noah’s ark), and Las mil y una noches (The thousand and one nights), created by Lluís Farré, Mercé Canals, and Carmen Gil. To speak of the dynamics of the image and, from there, of the dynamics of all contemporary media, is also to allude to their indefinite, changeable, and ephemeral nature. In this regard, they truly differ from a piece of artwork and the idea of permanence it imparts. The arrival of computers did not sign the death warrant of the written word, quite the contrary, since the signals they mobilize are verbal as much as iconic. But computers offer an alternative to the printed document, insofar as they transform the text into non-material media, which have no proper location and are not inscribed upon tangible media. Constructed as a hypertext, the digital text starts interacting and networking with other texts, and puts the writer’s authority into perspective. The text returns to some flexibility, it is again a form of a collective artifact, it loses its definitive quality and becomes open to evolution. Is the very conception of the work of art as a static creation, moving in the direction opposite to that of the development of media, still valid? Is the perception of the book as a genuine medium itself still relevant when confronted with contemporary behaviors and communication needs? To these, children’s books contribute a first answer by carrying in their own pages the story of this disintegration. They show a deep consciousness of the contrast existing between the constant flow of messages and the persistence of the printed work. The latter becomes somewhat of a repository of the tide of information, no longer the place where data are sorted or where the right and true discourse is chosen, but rather like an island where snatches of texts, words, sounds, and images are stranded after a shipwreck, in an arbitrary and orderless way. The printed work ends up being a simple testimonial to reality. In this regard it is characteristic of contemporary picture books to have newspaper used as standard material. Some illustrators even go so far as to find their aesthetics on the recycling of discarded items, thus unwittingly anchoring in time these objects, meant to be consumed and thrown away, as part of history. One of these is the Catalan illustrator, Mariona Cabassa, who works for many highly creative publishing houses (Kalandraka, Oqo, Baula, Le Rouergue, etc): in her pictures she frequently uses paper print, old encyclopedia illustrations, and yellowed paper or antique-looking colors, that seem to be fading away as if to show that a work of art does not last, that it will grow old and wither, but also, viewed more optimistically, that it will itself go into the making of another work, that it will be recycled (see Bueno 2003 and Bruno 2003). The Catalan ilustrator, Francesc Rovira, in his picture book Los patines de Sebastián (Sebastian’s roller skates; see Déu Prats 2003), also evokes this disintegration of the printed work and how it is doomed to disappear. He pictures the thoughts of the young hero, Sebastián, as a cloud of little bits of torn paper, scraps of newspaper, images of current events, reminiscences of

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature275 past events, and the like, following him wherever he goes. It seems a perfect illustration, almost literal, of the flow of information readily available and from which each individual catches bits of information. Likewise, it illustrates the collapse of the “grand narratives” discussed by JeanFrançois Lyotard. Opinion replacing dogma, the individual replacing the group, and instead of the book, a multitude of paper confetti, visible, but hardly readable any longer.

Media convergence, networks and communication bubbles The third characteristic of contemporary images, is that they make up hybrid, complex, engrossing media: multimedia. This first means that literature operates in “networks,” and that it is connected to other media — cinema for instance — that provide media coverage for a book, which, in turn, gives rise to the phenomenon of best-sellers. The Harry Potter saga is undoubtedly the most telling example of this, but the Tim Burton’s version of Alice in wonderland, or the movie adaptation by Spike Jonze of Maurice Sendak’s Where the wild things are, come as a confirmation of this trend. Marketing accessories and by-products from books, like figures and play sets, tee-shirts, games, decorative items for children’s rooms, and so on, also contribute to the success of a book. Roser Capdevila’s famous les tres bessones (triplets) come to mind straight away: born in 1983 inside the pages of a children’s picture book, they have become, ten years later, the heroines of a successful animated series. Today, they even have their own website, recounting the creation of these little characters, offering activities and interactive games, and selling books, CDs, DVDs, and CDroms staging the triplets and their playmates, as well as stationery items, dolls, and the like. To speak of multimedia when mentioning today’s media practices is also to speak of the hybrid nature of the materials we use. Video games, for example result from the collaboration of various domains: comic strips, role-playing games, cinema, literature, computer-generated images, animation, computer programming, etc. Their association ends up creating a whole universe, a virtual image to be explored from within and in which spectators are given the opportunity to immerse themselves entirely. They explore the image through an avatar, a hero whose looks and character are determined by the player. Interacting is therefore at the core of the game protocol: the player not only has the ability to control the universe she will explore, since each scenario will be unique, but it is imperative that she do so. Without her intervention, nothing will happen. Through her intervention, however, she constructs a narrative, and she shapes and enriches this virtual universe. Video games epitomize this convergence of different media fields, working together to give birth to a developing creation. Likewise, in contemporary art, countless are the installations that require the viewer to move around and inside of them, only able to become works of art through those multiple perspectives, all the while escaping the motionless onlooker standing still in front of what she assumes to be “the work of art.” There is no longer one spot to look at, but a firework of elements that catch the eye. Daniel Bougnoux (2006, 31) speaks of a “defocusing of the attention” (dépolarisation de l’attention) and of the consequent contagion of this stage-effect, with each and every viewer suddenly feeling entitled to claim that she is the focus of attention, the heart of a play.

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In view of the foregoing, a new communication system seems to be appearing, dominated by the concepts of network and bubble. Bubble, because each individual creates her own sphere of communication, without feeling the need to enter into direct contact with others, and network, since these bubbles are nonetheless likely to be constantly connected to one another. Taking up again the example of the video game, where the avatar freely wanders inside its virtual environment, another character suddenly appears on the screen and starts interacting with it: greets it, swaps something with it, fights against it, kills or gets killed by it. Behind these two avatars existing alongside in the virtual communication space of the game, there are two players connected, indirectly communicating through this media. Once again, this indicates how deeply modes of communications have evolved: nowadays, each individual can create her own communication bubble and network it with an infinite number of other little bubbles, without thereby ceasing to keep to herself within her own space, and without having to enter into physical contact with her fellow players. Daniel Bougnoux borrows this notion of communication “bubbles” from Peter Sloterdijk (2003), who builds a whole theory around the importance, nowadays, of immersion phenomena. Some people criticize these new practices for their lack of warmth. It might be that our era, unable to increase the speed of access to information, is now looking into alternate ways to improve the comfort of communication, such as the illusion of presence and physical contact, the individualization of communication. Hence, contemporary communication is typified by a powerful comeback of the body, of the emotional and sensitive aspects; and we believe that this evolution brings it close to the child’s mode of communication. Take a child being told a story: Jean Perrot (1999, 70) notes that very frequently the child will try to get as close as possible to the adult storyteller, even when the latter is not a family member (but a school teacher, story-teller, activity leader, comedian, or the like). Sitting close by, climbing on her lap, holding her arm or hand, the child is primarily seeking physical interaction. Very soon the audience and the speaker will end up being just one skin, i.e., a single identity according to the “skin-ego” concept coined by Didier Anzieu (1995), which multiplies the pleasure derived from communication at that very moment. In this context, looking at the evolution of children’s literature and at the relationship that it establishes between the reader and the object being read is all the more relevant. Indeed, in all logic, this publishing sector should prove particularly open to changing media practices, might even act as a flagship and be considered a source of inspiration for others.

Profile of the new reader: Spectator-reader, actor-reader? The interaction, the joint creativity imposed by current models on communication, the waning authority of the author, all these notions entered the literature several years ago. The expression “open work,” coined by Umberto Eco (1962), has become a by-word in literary studies. The reader and the author construct the message simultaneously, today’s peculiarity being that the reader is invited to join in the creation. The reader is no longer the passive consumer of somebody else’s knowledge, she becomes a genuine co-creator. Children’s literature has taken up that notion and it, too, empowers young readers with this liberty. Let us go back in time when a particular genre of interactive books was born, not exclusively directed to a readership of children, but in any case developed systematically for

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature277 them in specific collections. We are talking about CYOA books (Choose Your Own Adventure books), gamebooks that appeared in the 1960s and 1970s at the very moment when Umberto Eco was sharing his thoughts on the “open work” and on the collaborating reader. The plot would unfold depending on the reader choosing between different options, breaking, in so doing, the linearity of the story into a tree diagram organization. In Spain, the collection called “Elige tu propia aventura” (Spanish for CYOA), published by Timun Mas and translated from the English collection, was broken down into various sub-collections, specifically directed to children: “Elige tu primera aventura” (Choose your first adventure), “Elige tu propia superaventura” (Choose our own super-adventure), “Elige tu propio escalofrío” (Choose your own fright), etc. This genre was extremely successful in the 1980s and in the early 1990s, before slowly declining. Here is what the back-cover of the books from the Spanish collection has to say to explain the rules of a rather unusual reading experience: The paths you may take are many; some are easy, others sensible, others quite daring… and a few are dangerous. It is up to you to take the right decisions. You can read this book several times and each time will prove to be different. Remember the choices are yours. The adventure is yours. If you make a careless decision, go back to the beginning and start all over again. There are no good or bad picks, only a multitude of options. (Back cover of Estes 1985)

Making the reader responsible is at the heart of this writer-reader contract. Without her action and without her clever understanding of the situation to make the right decisions, the fiction is doomed. Beyond the example provided by this collection, one should pause to briefly consider the particular profile of this new reader who is not only active, but an actor in her reading experience. Two terms seem to be able to describe her reading experience. First, the child can be described as a “specta-reader” (Martinez Thomas 2012), a concatenation of spectator and reader. Given that the content of the message the child is delivered is both verbal and visual, discursive and iconic, she can be considered as being both a reader and a spectator of the book. A child will even be a spectator before being a true “reader” since stories will be read to her before she learns how to read. Nevertheless, she is deciphering signs, even though they are graphic signs, and children can therefore be said to be “reading pictures” just as one can read a map, the temperature, or a score of music. But the term specta-reader also alludes to the imaginative and imaging activity of the young reader constructing her own mental picture of the fiction. Thus this term seems particularly well-suited to the child reader, whose approach to the tale is necessarily active, with the book empowering her to construct the fiction based on the information encompassed in the text and the images. Other neologisms borrowed from the world of video-games and the theatre describe, even better than the term specta-reader does, how the entire body of the player, the spectator, or the reader is involved in multimedia devices like video-games, theatre plays, or children’s books. One speaks of “spect-actor” and of “read-actor” (Weissberg 1999). Indeed, there are countless books where the narrator calls out directly to the young reader and invites her to comment on, to repeat, to complete its message, to choose the direction the text should follow, to join in by pencilling in the illustration, by making a specific gesture, etc. Annie Renonciat, writing about the publishing of an assorted collection of cut out paper figures, endows the young reader of these English tales with all the responsibilities found in the theatre:

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appointed director, actor (free to rewrite their role), and operator of these paper walk-ons, the young reader plays — in every sense of the word — while at the same time acting and gesticulating. The movable image, created to better convey the message, actually provides the child with the complete freedom to move away from that message. (Renonciat 1989, 30)

A children’s book, similar to digital texts or images, becomes a matrix for potential works of art, only awaiting the reader’s contribution to realize one of its potentialities. Take the picture book Un gran sueño (A big dream, 2009; Ugalde): its flyleaf hides a sticker sheet of luminescent stars, inviting the child who would like to see the pleasure of reading last longer to recreate the constellation of her choice, whether real or imaginary, on the ceiling above her bed. Daniel Bougnoux broadens the scope of these remarks, here applied to children’s books, the theatre, and hyper media games, to any contemporary aesthetic experience. According to him, it is essential to combine the physical, the sensual, and the cognitive when, standing “in front of the image,” the visible cannot be reduced to what can be read, or deciphered, or named, but instead exceeds the intellect’s capacities while, at the same time, touching something more primitive and less conscious in ourselves. Judgement of taste requires that one should contribute a little bit of her heart and her body too. In the aesthetic relationship, invasion rather, or even commotion, something more is at stake than a mere confrontation, and the shock rocks several of our senses. “In front of ” Vermeer, Wagner, Victor Hugo, or Michelangelo, we touch and we are touched in the tactile sense of the word; we struggle to frame, we are groping in the dark to name what is coming. […] We are asked, in order to “understand,” to look with our fears and nightmares, to get caught into the painting. (Bougnoux 2006, 105)

“To get caught into the painting,” to never forget that “first and foremost, our retina is made of skin” (Bougnoux 2006, 106), are key to understanding that, underlying any contemplation, there is the desire to enter into the vision. In the reading experience, then, it is between the adult, the child, and the book that a common skin is woven, beyond the fusional relation between parent and child. The convergences between the modes of communication established by children’s literature and by new media practices have led us to put forward the following argument several times already: the characteristics of child communication — tactile, visual, intuitive, etc. — could become a source of inspiration for contemporary media practices, finding in children’s literature a breeding ground for creative experimentation. It is now time to consider this premise in detail.

The impact of child reading on our media practices The new nature of media, virtual and intangible, initially seemed to be in contradiction with one of the essential characteristics of the ways in which children read: the significance of the emotional link to the book as an object. How can a screen respond to a child’s tactile endeavours, how can it compete with the infinite possibilities given by the picture book to explore different materials, various inscribed surfaces? Observe the current developments in children’s computers: the particular care shown in their design — shape, colors, materials — proves that the screen is doing its best to improve the object’s potential to be able to create an emotional link with the

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature279 child. Recent developments in touch screens also aim at increasing the intuitive relationship existing with the new medium, constantly making it easier to access by “mimicking” the most natural human modes of communication. As for the “reading bubble” that recreates the fusional relationship between parent and child, the development of multimedia devices tends to sideline the adult. These devices facilitating the coexistence of various modes of expression mean to substitute themselves for the mediating adult, by making the tool able to communicate directly with the child. The growing presence of the image in the book was already pointing towards a more direct, more immediate communication, but the audiovisual dimension takes this even further. One would be wrong, however, to suppose that the degree of affectivity establishing itself between new media and children is inferior to what it used to be when an adult was needed to do the reading. Some media formats have entered family cultural habits without necessarily breaking this “shared skin,” accompanying the reading experience, but no longer calling upon the adult in the same way. The recent fad for home cinema confirms this trend: by literally bringing cinema into the home, it dispossesses the public place of its exclusivity to project films in large format, immersing the viewers in a sea of sound and images. In the intimate space of the house, the “windows on the world” — our giant screens — double the protective skin of the home by plunging the whole family into an audiovisual show whose virtual atmosphere superimposes itself on the life of the household. There is yet another essential aspect of childhood reading that is ideally addressed by our digital era: games. Every single educator has used games as a privileged vector of learning; in a similar manner, the pedagogical properties of games have long influenced publishing for young people. One can find, as early as the nineteenth century, extensions of books and of their illustrations in the shape of puzzles, bingo games, Chinese shadow theatres, etc. But, at a time when digital media are rushing in to create playful virtual worlds that are increasingly technically complex yet easier to access and more interactive, are they not becoming more convincing than books? Going back to the game books mentioned previously, how can one explain such a short-lived success given that they were praised to the skies by educators and celebrated in schools? Simply because the electronic devices subsequently developed are the natural heirs of these interactive fictions. The new formats are proving much better suited than the printed page to shake the traditional organization of sequential plots and to conceive a tree diagram fiction branching out of a central core. Also, these new media have taken the idea of the creative collaboration of the reader much further: “construction-type hyperfictions” are succeeding to “exploration-type hyperfictions,” allowing the reader to invent the narrative’s intricacies. This is a further step taken in the direction of bringing closer the notions of author and reader: it is no longer just the reader’s good judgement that is called upon, but also her ability to make up a fiction. Regarding this swift and exponential development, some elements should not be overlooked, such as the part played by multimedia technology corporate groups, their soliciting and the means they are ready to concede for technological support, once created, to be supplied with appealing contents and thus attract users. “Without the games themselves, there is no more to game consoles than scraps of metal and transistors,” said Shane Satterfield, editor-in-chief of the website Game trailers, during the Los Angeles E3 Electronic Entertainment Expo, exhibition dedicated to the latest videogames, on June 13, 2010 (Chapman 2010). In this respect, what could, better than literature, bring these technological devices to life and supply them with fictional worlds?

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Will this chapter end on the conclusion that written works are to become digitalized, and will necessarily end up as e-books? I wish to believe that children’s literature is rather evolving in the direction of media formats that might disrupt the text even further, such as 3D computergenerated images, or audiovisual media, all techniques favoring an approach that is both digital and tactile. And at the same time, these new reading practices often develop within children’s books, picture books in particular, due to the format’s great ability for self-reflection. Three examples will bring this paper to its close, providing food for thought. Advertisements have lately been praising the new experience of “playful reading,” imagined by the start-up Atomic Antelope, based on the text of Alice in wonderland. The application is based on the 1865 illustrated version and combines John Tenniel’s drawings with the technical abilities of the iPad: along the 52 pages, Alice will grow or shrink, objects will fly across the screen, the white rabbit will shake its head, etc. The reading path is organized in such a way that, after a first read, if the application is launched again, the animated images will not be the same. The Apple commercial in this respect is significant: “Contrary to other e-books, Alice in wonderland is not to be read lying on a couch. Out with the traditional book! Here, you will have to shake and tip your iPad for the book items to start interacting” (). Is this message not addressing the child within ourselves? Physically moving the artifact is a sine qua non condition to animate the e-book and we are reminded of the importance of touching and being taken by surprise in children’s literature, applied here. Reading “no longer” means being docile, it now means acting, moving, and for the creators of this application it means “anchoring the reader through action,” as Jean Perrot puts it in describing the way children read. It goes without saying that it is not a coincidence if this application was issued on the market a couple of months after Tim Burton’s movie was out, an “updated” version of Alice, amended thanks to the special effects of 3D computer-generated animations and tinted with the director’s joyfully macabre universe. Again, this proves how different media operate in networks and interact. Interactions? Cross-influences? It seems difficult, based on the last example, to decide whether new technologies avail themselves of the child’s bond with picture books or whether it is children’s picture books that change and modify their own structures under the influence of hyperfictions. Let us take a closer look at one of Roser Capdevila’s picture books, La escuela de las tres mellizas (The triplets’ school). The cover of the picture book shows the façade of a classroom. The school mistress is waiting by the door, wide open to welcome the hurrying triplets, who are in the foreground, and the impatient reader, her hand resting on the door bell rope as if to sound the three knocks before the rising of the theatre curtain. When opening the picture book, the reader immediately comes across a centre page spread inviting her to open two paper suitcases closed by a flap to take out characters and objects. All the material needed to direct the play of a school day is found in these miniature “wings.” Unfolding both sides of the center spread reveals the stage, representing three areas in 3D: the classroom, with the sickroom on one side and the music room on the other. The succession of gestures made by the reader — opening up the picture book, then the two cases, taking out the objects, unfolding the page to build the stage, placing the items in the created space — reproduce exactly the unfolding of the Greek skènè in its three functions of wing, setting, and play area. Children’s games, role-playing and theatre, videogames, literature: different levels are intertwined and, here too, improved through interaction.

Texts and images in contemporary Spanish children’s literature281 The very last example which will conclude this chapter aims at showing how the new reading modes sometimes lead to revisiting literature’s major works, to inject new life in traditional reading and to make it accessible to children. Who could go on thinking, after that, that images have signed the death warrant of books? Rafael Cruz Contarini and Rafael Salmerón (2005) have imagined an alphabet book based on the famous adventures of Don Quixote. Suggesting an alphabetical reading of Cervantes’s novel, they deconstruct the work, and by so doing, bring it within the reach of any young reader, enabling it to find its way into the child’s world, at the risk, sometimes, of slightly damaging the respectable image of the old gentleman. By way of proof, take the page where Don Quixote is written with a “K,” following a very modern spelling. The reading of the novel is put in perspective, in a mise en abîme, such as on the page dealing with the letter “L,” referring to the word Lugar (Place). This entry gives the authors the opportunity to quote the novel’s opening sentence: “Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not dare…” The accompanying illustration shows Don Quixote and Sancho, bent over an enormous atlas where they are trying, to no avail, to find where their adventure is taking place. It seems they are reading their own story: “And so begins the story of a skin and bones adventurer. Where on earth could this place be? I wish I knew it.”2

2.

“Así comienza la historia de un delgado aventurero. ¿Dónde estará ese lugar ? Me encantará conocerlo” (Cruz Contarini & Salmerón 2005, n.p.).

The essay Enric Bou and Ángel Otero-Blanco The essay as a literary form, as we know it today, starts with the development of the press and the spread of public instruction. This genre developed tremendously thanks to the presence of an avid readership and a new set of problems introduced by the fall of the Ancien Régime. The Enlightenment introduced new moral and political issues which quickly won the minds and hearts of intellectuals. Thus, when Zola published his notorious “J’accuse,” he articulated a common feeling of outrage, which was very vivid throughout Europe. This combination of developments — new ways of distributing information, the rise of newspapers and reviews, new readership, new set of preoccupations — did much to start a splendorous period for this genre. In the Iberian Peninsula this was a moment of particular turmoil. In the aftermath of the Napoleonic wars, contact with French culture created a need for both freedom and constitutional solutions, in line with recent events in the US and France. At the same time, writers like Mariano José de Larra spread a generalized ambivalent sentiment towards ideas on modernity as expressed by French values. If we combine this attitude with the ideology of Romanticism and the Industrial Revolution, we can explain more easily why certain issues — debates about the definition of nations, social struggle, and the ideological separation between secular and religious views of society — were placed at the top of the agenda of Iberian thinkers. In the case of Spain it sparked, among others, debates about the Republic and the Monarchy. In Portugal there were many conflicting views about how to solve an imperial destiny. The essay develops dramatically in time of political strife and social upheaval. As JoséCarlos Mainer puts it, “the essay lives better in the intersection of beliefs” (1996, 16). It finds its place beyond rigid and outdated conceptions of history. That is why the so-called 1898 national crisis was a golden age for this genre in Spain. In a situation of linguistic conflict, recent books (Lodares, Lozano) exploit in a demagogical way an unresolved issue in Spain — linguistic conflict — paying little or no attention to years of more scientifically oriented publications (Aracil 1982, Nadal 1992, Vallverdú 1998). In other cases the essay is a channel for expressing a challenge to the official order. The essay then subverts ideological repression under Franco by rewriting the official version of history and collective memory from a personal, subjective perspective. In Martín Gaite’s Usos amorosos de la postguerra española (Love in post-civil war Spain, 1987), personal experience sets the narrative focus and presents a vivid and lucid portrayal of daily life in Spain under a situation of dictatorship. In the case of Portugal, this role has been adopted partially by fiction, as in some novels by António Lobo Antunes, particularly in Manual dos Inquisidores (The inquisitors’ manual, 1996). Essays are extremely fruitful when revising the past, present, and future of nations. With all their limitations, both Martín Gaite’s and Lozano’s works are placed within historical periods of political transition, from dictatorship to democracy (Gaite), or from Aznar’s centralistic move to Zapatero’s decentralization of national politics and turn towards the European Union (Lozano). The essay thus serves as a redefinition tool of national and international politics. It also explores the dynamics between the social and the individual, the impact of worldwide politics on everyday life; and as a personal, subjective critique of the nation, it creates new venues for doi 10.1075/chlel.29.24bou © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

The essay283 discussion, introducing dissident views. It also has a sort of transhistorical, transnational, and conversational nature. The writer’s “I” is very present and helps develop the essay into an open and very subjective genre. In this light, the essay is an open literary mode with much emphasis on subjectivism and dialogue with readers. As Pilar San Juan puts it in a classical approach to the genre, “the essay is the most personalized, half poetic and half didactic form of literary expression. It is hard to define, it is subtle and evasive; it almost eludes the limits within which one attempts to place it […] It is this lack of limits that gives the essay its flexibility” (San Juan 1954, 11). It develops an aesthetics of the “I,” in which content is often controlled by the writer’s personality (style), which becomes a personal mark on the text. Due to its open nature it is difficult to subordinate it to prescriptive literary conventions. The essay follows no institutional rules, no official rhetoric, or as Miguel de Unamuno said, it is written in an “a lo que salga” (whatever-comes-up) mode. This kind of text generates a free creative impulse in search of an active communication with the reader. Its conversational form allows a much less formal way of communication and enables writers to freely express their thoughts. Therefore controversy, provocation, intuition, are the names of the game. Many authors explicitly seek the reader’s participation in this dialogue (Gómez-Martínez 1981, 50–51). Moreover, the essay is, generally, not conclusive, “a non-systematical reflection, without any total or scientific purpose, written in very personal terms, with a tendency to collateral digression” (Gracia 1996, 9). It is situated, one could say, between two literary realms: didacticism and poetry, and between two views of the world, scientific and artistic. Under the notion “essay” one may consider many different “géneros ensayísticos” (Aullón de Haro 1992, 105–113). As recently indicated by Pozuelo, the essay can be related to “escrituras del yo” (writing of the I), because of “its capacity to transform the contemplation of objects into an enlightening experience for the individual self ” (Pozuelo Yvancos 2005, 190; see also Arenas Cruz 1997).

Iberian problems The five main national cultures coexisting in Spain and Portugal have been aware for years of their special position in a European context. This difference has been voiced in many ways through art and literature, but the essay has been the literary genre of choice to express dreams and realities, utopias and disenchantments. The difference between Europe and the Iberian Peninsula began in the Middle Ages with the occupation of the Peninsula by Arabs and the “Reconquest.” A second element of difference was the military and religious expansion in Africa, the Americas, and parts of Asia, pursued by both Spanish and Portuguese warriors and priests. Having been an imperial power for three centuries, Peninsular decline coincided with the Enlightenment, thus sparking a period of crisis and resentment, which lasted until both countries joined the European Union in 1986 (see D. Franco 1980 and Marichal 1984). Due to its many differences with Europe and its secondary role in European politics and economy after 1800, many pages have been devoted to the problem of backwardness in relationship with neighboring countries. This was a main point of interest for philosophers, politicians, and economists alike. In Portugal, Antero de Quental’s Causas da Decadência dos Povos Peninsulares nos Últimos Três Séculos (Causes of Peninsular decadence over the last three centuries, 1871) is a very good example of this kind of concern. A second group of essays would

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fall into the category of sociopolitical thought. Both Spain and Portugal had a difficult integration into modernity. However, an interest in the new revolutionary ideas of socialism and anarchism, as well as other ways to change society, found fertile ground. Quental participated in many literary polemics against Romanticism. He is famous for his Bom Senso e Bom Gosto (Good sense and good taste, 1865) and A Dignidade das Letras e as Literaturas Oficiais (Dignity of letters and official literatures, 1865), in which he attacked romantic lyricism by defending the idea that literature was supposed to have a social role. With José Fontana, he was instrumental in the diffusion in Portugal of workers’ associations and new revolutionary ideas. Like other intellectuals in the Iberian Peninsula he used the press regularly to discuss his ideals. He did so in Diário Popular (Popular newspaper), Jornal do Comércio (Journal of commerce), and O Primeiro de Janeiro (January the first). Quental was a journalist in the socialist newspapers A República (The republic) and Pensamento Social (Social thought). An active politician, he founded the Associação Fraternidade Operária (Workers’ Brotherhood Association) (1872), and was a representative in Portugal for the First International. He was one of the organizers of a very influential lecture series, “Conferências do Casino” (Casino lectures), and was the author of a significant contribution to that series: Causas da Decadência dos Povos Peninsulares nos Últimos Três Séculos. In 1890, Quental was chairman of the Liga patriótica do Norte (Northern Patriotic League), against a British ultimatum that would make Portugal leave occupied lands between Angola and Mozambique. As many other intellectuals of the time he was chronically inclined to depression (apparently an emotional and psychological reaction to the declining situation of Portugal). Similarly, Catalan philosopher Eugeni d’Ors would include in his writings many reflections on social issues, and through the years between 1906 and 1940, he defended several contradictory positions: social conservatism, Catalan nationalism, and anarchism, which he finally incorporated in a very personal version of fascism (Ors 1946, 1947 & 1982; Jardí 1967; Cacho Viu 1997). Antero de Quental gives three main reasons to explain the Portuguese and Spanish backward condition. The first is religious counter-reform, which was assumed in the Trento Council and carried out by Jesuits. Secondly, he ascertains that a centralized political life controlled at all cost by the kings — and which went against medieval freedoms — had created a corrupt political system. Finally, he points to the economic system shaped by the colonies, which was based on military robbery and economic submission and did not allow a bourgeoisie to develop. Quental’s thesis summarizes some of the earlier findings by Alexandre Herculano, one of the founders of Portuguese Romanticism. Many liberal thinkers in the Peninsula would agree with these opinions.

The past: National myths, reinvention of the past Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger have distinguished between three types of invented traditions with distinctive functions. One of them — which establishes or symbolizes social cohesion and collective identities — has been most fruitful in the Iberian Peninsula. Hobsbawm and Ranger (1983, 1–2) defined “invented tradition” as follows:

The essay285 “Invented tradition” is taken to mean a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of behavior by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past. In fact, where possible, they normally attempt to establish continuity with a suitable historic past […]. However, insofar as there is such reference to a historic past, the peculiarity of “invented” traditions is that the continuity with it is largely fictitious. In short, they are responses to novel situations which take the form of reference to old situations, or which establish their own past by quasi-obligatory repetition.

Reconstruction and recovery of history becomes one of the dialectic weapons of choice in order to redefine the nation. In light of a situation of decadence, and with the help of romantic revival of the past and national myths, all cultural areas of the Peninsula developed an interest in old mythology and the idealization of medieval past. In Portugal it was Sebastianismo (Sebastianism), in Catalonia the literary competition Jocs Florals (Floral games), which echoed a similar festival in Tolosa (present day Toulouse) as an expression of a splendorous medieval time. They also vindicated a Catalan Mediterranean empire with a powerful fleet of warriors (almogàvers) and merchants, in competition with Genoa and Venice. Castile recreated the myth of Reconquest against Muslims, America’s discovery, and the natives’ massive christening. Similarly, in Galicia or the Basque country, there was a tendency to revive glories from the past. Castelao, for example, writes: “I can imagine an immense parade of the sainted company of immortal Galicians. There I see noble dignitaries and strong characters produced by Galicia through its history.”1 The Galician writer also mentions a long parade of names, to prove his assertion. The list starts with Roman emperor Theodosius, Pope Damasus I, and includes other names such as Bernardo de Bonaval, Airas Nunes, Afonso Eanes de Coton, Pero da Ponte, Pero Meogo, Xohán de Guillade, Meendiño, Xohán Airas, Martín Codax, Paio Gomes Charino, Macías, and goes all the way to more contemporary personalities, such as Concepción Arenal and Pardo Bazán. In the case of the Basque Country, two chapters in Jon Juaristi’s El bucle melancólico (The melancholy curl, 1988), “Vascomanía” (Basquephilia; 1997, 51–79) and “Tartarín en Vizcaya” (Tartarin in Biscay; 1997, 157–201) are illuminating. As Juaristi puts it: “Sabino Arana’s use of history is always metaphorical” (“El uso de la historia por Sabino Arana es siempre metafórico”; 178). Most thinkers of the Iberian Peninsula in the late nineteenth century and much of the twentieth century devoted much energy to the task of rethinking their community in the light of a recreated past. They would all provide wonderful examples of an “invention of tradition.” In Portugal there was an ongoing discussion about the country’s “destiny.” A good example of this is Fernando Pessoa’s Mensagem (Message, 1934), a major work for his theory of Sebastianism. Actually, the myth of Sebastianism has been alive for many decades. It is founded on the mysterious death of King Sebastian in the midst of a battle in Morocco against Muslims in 1578. This event took place at a time when Portuguese colonial expansion in Africa, Asia, and Brazil was at its height, and also while Luis de Camões wrote Os Luisadas (The Lusiads, 1572) in his honor. Pessoa’s Sebastianism proposes a reinvention of history as the key to recover a golden

1.

“podo eu maxinar unha Santa Compaña de immortaes galegos, en interminable procesión. Alí vexo as nobres dinidades e os fortes caraiteres que dou Galiza no decorrer da sua hestoria” (Castelao 1994, 428).

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past that will revitalize the nation (Serrão 1978). His project is mixed with a personal obsession with Portugal. He considers history as a dialogue between past, present, and future. Indeed, this dialectic of time is the source of his Sebastianism. In Pessoa, the reinvention of the Sebastian myth will trigger Portugal’s regeneration. More specifically, Sebastianism means the rewriting (the recreation) of a national hero that will lead the country to the Fifth Empire. Pessoa’s main epic on Sebastianism is Mensagem. Another Portuguese author, Teixeira de Pascoaes, introduced the topic of saudade (melancholy, sadness) connected to a certain view of Portuguese history. A contemporary author, Eduardo Lourenço, has significantly written on Portugal’s “destiny” in O Labirinto da saudade (Labyrinth of longing, 2000). In Spain, Juaristi views Basque nationalism as a collection of mythical stories. In his controversial El bucle melancólico, he approaches nationalism from a mythological perspective. It is a mythology based on the ideas of collective melancholy and loss. Andrés de Blas Guerrero highlights Juaristi’s notion of the Spanish political disaster of 1898 as one of the social and ideological origins of all historical and cultural nationalisms in Spain (De Blas Guerrero 1998, 108). In fact Juaristi asserts without much ground that “without ‘98 there are not peripheral nationalisms to speak of ” (1998, 49). Finally, Ángel Ganivet in Idearium español (Spain, an interpretation; 1897) proposes that Spain’s power abroad is not material any more. Spaniards must awake from the illusion of imperialism. Ganivet explains that Spain — like Segismundo in Calderón de la Barca’s La vida es sueño (Life is a dream) — no longer distinguishes between reality (the end of the Empire) and dream (the memory of a glorious past that has become a fiction; Ganivet 2003, 238–43).

Progress, modernity, industry, capitalism Due to historical reasons, all linguistic and cultural communities in the Iberian Peninsula had to face the problem of how to enroll in modernity. In Portugal, groups such as that of “Lusitanian Integralism” produced significant  — although marginalized  — writings with perhaps less vigor but with regular quality. António Sardinha collaborated in reviews like Alma Portuguesa (Portuguese soul), Nação Portuguesa (Portuguese nation, 1913–38), and Seara Nova (New party), with António Sérgio and Raúl Proença. Raúl Proença was one of the most active and influential Portuguese intellectuals of the early decades of the twentieth century. He was moved by an unshakeable democratic spirit, but was simultaneously deeply critical of the shortcomings of the Republican regime. In his writings he confronted Portugal’s moral weakness — an issue that led him to feel deeply concerned by and dramatically aware of the decadence from which the country was suffering. The underlying principles that give coherence to all his work are thus democratic socialism and a criticism of both bourgeois morals and all dictatorial solutions. He was very critical of three centuries of Jesuit education that had killed off the living energies and the intimate forces which centuries earlier had placed Portugal as a world power (J. Baptista 1990). On the contrary, Fernando Pessoa’s economic thought was very liberal and progressive. Pessoa’s project for national reform was concerned not only with the mythic recreation of the past but also with the economic development of the here and now (Margarido 1987, 107). The transformation and reconstruction of Portugal should involve both a systematic industrialization of the country and a strengthening of the middle class (Serrão 1978, 35–36). In his analysis he pointed out that one

The essay287 of the reasons for Portugal’s decadence is what he calls the “provincialism syndrome” (Pessoa 1986b, 115–22). Pessoa believed that Portugal was, at the beginnig of the twentieth century, a provincial country because it admired European and American progress when in fact it should create modernity instead of just admiring it. In Spain, philosophers such as Ganivet would propose a detachment from capitalism (Gallego Morell 1997, 125). He rejected materialism and the corrupting power of money. For Ganivet, capitalism and greed lead to the formation of the self-centered individuals of modern life. He considered spiritual alienation and lack of solidarity as one of the materialistic sources of human reification (Santiáñez-Tió 1994, 41–43). Galicia was aware of being a backward and traditional society not experiencing the challenges of modernization or industrialization that were taking place in Catalonia and the Basque Country. It was also geographically very isolated, a feature that has always helped shape Galician history. The Irmandades da Fala (Brotherhoods of Language) was a group of writers and intellectuals that viewed the Galician language and literature as cultural unifying sources of regional nationalism. The Irmandades da Fala edited and published its own journal, A Nosa Terra (Our land). Some outstanding names were: Vicente Risco, Ramón Cabanillas, Ramón Otero Pedrayo, and Alfonso Rodríguez Castelao. Particularly, Vicente Risco’s cultural approach to nationalism is considered to be the starting point of the so-called generation “Nós” (Us). During the nineteenth century, in the context of Renaixença and Romanticism, most Catalan thinkers put forward the idea that the Spanish state was authoritarian, backward, and chaotic, subject to civil wars and constant political upheavals. It had proved incapable of solving the most pressing internal problems and would ultimately lead the country to the disaster of 1898: the war with the United States and the loss of the only significant portions left in the old and magnificent Empire (Durán & Kluback 1994, 5). Among the most illustrious names one could count Joan Maragall, Eugenio D’Ors, and the father of Catalan nationalism, Valentí Almirall. Following Pi i Margall’s example, Almirall urged a regionalist form of federalism. In the late 1800s, he published the newspaper El Estado Catalán (The Catalan state); directed the cultural association La Jove Catalunya (Young Catalonia), which focused both on the literary renaissance and on federalist politics; and in 1880 founded the first Catalan-language daily newspaper, El Diari Català (The Catalan newspaper), to support a provincial administrative autonomy for a federation of the four Catalan provinces. In 1886, having given up on federalism in favor of Catalan regionalism, he published Lo Catalanisme, “the first categorical expression of political Catalanism,” in which he detailed the “Catalan problem” (Payne 1971). According to Stanley Payne, four major influences made the 1880s-1890s the period of gestation for political Catalanism: (a) the expansion of the Renaixença across almost the whole region; (b) a concern for Catalan industry, especially in the wake of a temporary decline that began in 1886; (c) the influence of federalism among the Catalan middle class; and (d) the residues of Catalan Carlism, which was important among pro-traditionalist and anti-centralist groups (Payne 1971, 20). In Euskadi, the essay has had less importance than in other Iberian literatures until very recently. Its main focus has been didacticism and scholarly research. Most contributions have been published in newspapers and journals rather than in book form (see Altzibar 2000, 589–627). Recent Basque nationalism has been driven by disputes over the nature of industrialization and class differentiation. At the outset of the movement, however, nationalism in Euskadi was very different. According to Sabino Arana (1865–1903), the founder of Basque nationalist doctrine, it

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was important to distinguish between the “Basque and Latin races” and to argue for the political independence of the former. In 1897 Arana called for the establishment of a union of Basques in order to protect the common fatherland and the race itself. He coined a new term, “Euskadi,” to denote a Basque nation comprising territories in which history had taken rather different courses. Breaking with the vocabulary of the Ancien Régime, Arana spoke of a “war of conquest” against Euskadi, of “Basque laws” rather than fueros, and of “independence.” Spain was depicted for the first time as a “foreign power” from which it was necessary to be separated. The contradiction is that Arana’s nationalist ideals were proposed against the background of rapid industrialization in Biscay, the main center of the Spanish steel industry, which gave rise to a wave of immigration from other regions of the Iberian Peninsula. Arana referred to this as “an invasion by Spanish socialists and atheists.” At the outset then, Basque nationalism was thus a racist, extreme-Catholic, separatist doctrine that postulated the existence of an ethnic community distinct from the Spanish and French, and portrayed the Basque problem as a conflict between nations (Juaristi 1997, 184–201).

Iberism, federalism It is noticeable that some of these initiatives of reflection on the moral state of the Peninsula resulted in collaborations between some of those communities. Catalan philologist and liberal politician Antoni Puigblanch (1795–1840), who lived in exile in London, was the first to present the idea of a federation of Iberian communities. In general terms, however, Portuguese thinkers have not been interested in Iberism, due to the obvious danger of being assimilated into a bigger Spain. The most significant initiative was the unsuccessful alliance between Portuguese and Catalan intellectuals, or Galician, Basque, and Catalan politicians and intellectuals. Many of these efforts were built against the dominant power in the Peninsula: Spanish-Castilian dominated politics in Madrid. In many instances, central economic and political power in Madrid was feared in the periphery. Two good examples are the political alliance of Portugal-Catalonia in the first third of the twentieth century and the political and cultural alliance “Galeusca.” Interestingly enough, what in the 1920s and 1930s was considered the cradle for a wide political alliance against centralism became just a cultural festival in the years of the so-called “transition” to democracy (Martínez Gil 1997a). Contrary to Sá-Carneiro Europeist naivité, Fernando Pessoa had a clear consciousness of what role Catalonia could play in the creation of a new imperial Portugal with Iberian ambitions. Ignasi Ribera i Rovira — editor of a Barcelona newspaper, El Poble Català (Catalan people) — contributed to define a new Iberism based upon three main zones: Galician-Portuguese, Castilian, and Catalan. He was the author of essays such as Iberisme (Iberism, 1907), Portugal y Galicia: Nación (Portugal and Galicia: Nation, 1911) and Atlàntiques (Atlantics, 1913), and lectured extensively in Portugal defending an Atlantic option, that is, the union of Galicia and Portugal in the context of a new Iberian map. Ribera i Rovira contributed to the movement of saudosismo, which was formed in 1912 around the journal A Águia (The eagle). In the introduction to his book Atlántiques, Ribera i Rovira spoke about the need for a republican Catalan saudosismo, which would be called enyorantisme (longing), and quoted from Pessoa’s article “A Nova Poesia Portuguesa Sociologicamente Considerada” (New Portuguese poetry from a sociological perspective). The tragic and disquieting events of World War I convinced Fernando Pessoa about

The essay289 the need for a New Iberia. Between 1916 and 1918 he wrote several texts in favor of creating an Iberian Confederation, presenting France, Germany, and Castile as the biggest enemies of Iberia. At the same time, he considered that to include Portugal and Spain as countries of Latin heritage was an aberration, because of their common Arab heritage. Pessoa, inspired by Catalan imperialism, proposed a new Iberian nation, because “Iberian spirit was a fusion of Mediterranean and Atlantic spirit; that is why its two columns are Catalonia and a natural Galician-Portuguese state.”2 In a way, Pessoa’s position was similar to that of Catalan nationalists, particularly in relation to imperialism as conceived by Noucentisme intellectuals like Eugeni d’Ors, whose arbitrarisme (arbitrarism) designated social, political, and cultural interventionism to intercede against limitations of bourgeois rationality. Pessoa combined this dream with Sebastianism — the return of a hidden (encoberto) monarch — and his prophecies of a Fifth Empire (Martínez-Gil 2005). What for Spanish Iberism was a way to unify the Peninsula, for others in the periphery meant a federation (Sánchez Cervelló 2004). At the turn of the century, Catalan political nationalism was reinforced by a cultural, artistic, and literary renaissance known as Modernisme (similar to French Art Nouveau; German Jugend Stil; British Arts & Crafts; Spanish Modernismo; or Italian Liberty). Catalonia emerged from a period of crisis and exhaustion with the impetus provided by the industrial revolution and the dynamic nature of its society, which already had close ties with Europe. Together with the Basque Country, Catalonia became the economic driving force of the Iberian Peninsula. In 1906, Enric Prat de la Riba (1870–1917), one the most notable members of Solidaritat Catalana (Catalan solidarity), published La nacionalitat catalana (Catalan nationhood), in which he expounded a philosophical justification of Catalan nationalism, calling for the establishment of a Catalan state within a Spanish federation. He was also the creator of the Mancomunitat de Catalunya (Commonwealth of Catalonia) in 1914. Solidaritat Catalana, also founded in 1906, was a proautonomy movement which brought together the Lliga Regionalista, the Unió Republicana, the Unió Catalanista, the Republican nationalists, the Federalists, the Carlists, and the Independents. This movement emerged as a protest against the military repression of the Catalan press of the time, and also to oppose a law on jurisdiction proposed by the central government, which was clearly an attack on democracy and autonomy. Prat presented the idea that Catalan law was a “live entity, spontaneously produced by a national consciousness and evolving constantly.” Recent readings of Prat’s national-imperialist operation proposed that the so-called “Catalan Imperialism” would take a leading position in Spanish politics and economic activities, thus leading the country out of decadence, after the defeat of 1898, in a movement of regeneration towards democratic civilization. The Catalan nationalist political party, Lliga (League), pushed for this takeover of government by civil society, which, according to them, did not exist in Madrid (Ucelay da Cal 2003). Catalan imperialism, in Prat de la Riba, meant the appropiation of leftish concepts by Valentí Almirall, reelaborated by Prat in his pamphlet Per Catalunya i l’Espanya Gran (For Catalonia and the Great Spain), which Francesc Cambó as a politician and Eugeni d’Ors in his Glosari (Lexicon) translated into a proposal to conquer the Spanish state. A harsh reaction to these proposals can be read in José Ortega y Gasset’s work, especially in España invertebrada (Invertebrate Spain, 1922) and La rebelión de las masas (The revolt of the 2.

“uma fusão do espírito mediterrânico com o espírito atlântico; por isso as suas duas colunas são a Catalunha e o estado natural galaico-português” (quoted in Martínez-Gil 1997b).

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masses, 1930). The founder of modern and influential journals such as España (Spain, 1915) and Revista de Occidente (Western review, 1923) wrote his reflection in the midst of the Restoration regime crisis. España invertebrada is divided in two parts, “Particularismo y acción directa” (Particularism and direct action) and “La ausencia de los mejores” (The absence of the best). He analyzes the males de España (Spain’s maladies) and proposes a way to organize the state, thus updating regeneracionismo’s (regenerationism) intellectual heritage. Nevertheless, the radical political shifts of the 1920s and 1930s (Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship) and other regime changes (Second Republic, Civil War, Francoism, Transition to Democracy) left his writings out of date. In his text he points to three kinds of mistakes that do not allow Spain to function as a cohesive nation: political abuses, wrong kind of government, religious fanaticism; secondly, the malady of particularismo (particularism) and its effect, acción directa “direct action”; finally, the origin of all problems: the Spanish people’s soul, dominated by espíritu de valentía (heroic spirit) and fuerza bruta (brute force). Ortega y Gasset’s ideological agenda to strengthen national cohesion is based on the political renewal of Castile’s “will to rule and command” (1975, 41). More specifically, Ortega suggests that Spain needs to restore Castile’s historical inclination to worldwide expansion. In his own words, “[l]as grandes naciones no se han hecho desde dentro, sino desde afuera” (powerful nations are built from the outside, not from the inside; Ortega y Gasset 1975, 53). Consequently, the rebirth of old Castile’s international policies is, according to Ortega, the key to frustrating Catalan and Basque nationalistic movements. In his view, these regionalisms — which threaten and weaken Spain’s national identity — are cultural inventions sponsored by “just some people with economic ambitions and business interests” (Ortega y Gasset 1975, 49). In order to control these political “particularisms,” Ortega y Gasset proposes the creation of a major intellectual class that leads the country towards an organized community founded on an ideal cooperation among social classes. In fact, Ortega says, national regeneration is only possible if Spaniards are willing to accept what he calls “imperativo de selección” (necessary selection), which involves, on the one hand, the economic re-connection of clear-cut social classes, and, on the other, the political supremacy of Castile and Madrid. On the contrary, Castelao’s notion of the Iberian Peninsula focuses on the fruitful dialogue between different histories and national traditions. One of Castelao’s main concerns is the role of Galicia in a multicultural and plural Spain. Castelao’s political preference is an “Iberian Federal Republic” or “Iberian Union” based on historical and cultural nationalities including Portugal (Maceira Fernández 1995, 150). Castelao’s Sempre en Galiza (Always in Galicia; published in Buenos Aires, 1944; written between 1935 and the early 1940s) is one of the masterpieces of Galician essay. Written in Barcelona, Valencia, New York, Buenos Aires, and Badajoz — where Castelao was exiled by the right-wing government of Lerroux, Sempre en Galiza demands social commitment and men of action (Rei Romeu 2000, 97), rather than “library intellectuals” (Rodríguez Castelao 1994, 20). The concept of “periphery” is critical in this groundbreaking essay on Galician culture. In the section entitled “Adro” (Field), Castelao compares Extremadura’s everyday life, class divisions, and land property with Galician politics and social structures (Monteagudo 1998, 455). This parallelism between Extremadura and Galicia underlines the conflict of “marginal regions” versus “political centralism.” In Unamuno, Iberism is understood from a cultural and spiritual perspective. According to Ángel Marcos de Dios “Spiritual Iberism” can be defined as “an ensemble — not a mixture — of

The essay291 peoples, which have lived a similar life under similar conditions, and therefore must think their projection at the same time” (Marcos de Dios 1985, 28). In Unamuno, Iberism transcends Peninsular borders. Unamuno’s Iberism lies in putting together all peoples in the Peninsula, including those from the former colonies in Latin America (or Ultramar as he calls it), where Portugal and Spain’s intervention can be felt. According to García Morejón, his notion of Iberism is a singular and noteworthy one. It respects diversity and pays attention to what unifies them from a spiritual perspective that presided in the past and is still present in artistic creativity (García Morejón 1971, 352). As a matter of fact, Unamuno and Portuguese writer Oliveira Martins believed that Spain and Portugal shared a common historical and cultural project. According to Oliveira Martins “there is neither a Portuguese civilization, nor a Spanish one, but a Peninsular civilization” (García Morejón 1971, 342).

Europe, internationalism, cosmopolitanism For many authors the main obsession in their writings has been the definition of a national community within the boundaries of the Spanish state. Juaristi has located between 1895 and 1905 the split between two different communities in the Basque Country. The controversy between Unamuno and Arana at the turn of the century expresses the problem in very clear terms.. Miguel de Unamuno stated in the summer of 1901 his opinion that Basque language should be left behind and that Basques should embrace Spanish culture. Ramiro Maeztu was of the same opinion. In his best examination of the problem, El bucle melancólico, Juaristi provides a personal, excruciating account of Basque nationalism configuration. Ramón Otero Pedrayo in his 1939 Ensaio histórico sobre a cultura galega (Historical essay on Galician culture) introduces the idea that Galicia’s future depends not only on preserving its cultural roots but also on considering itself as a historical nation within Europe. For another Galician author, Vicente Risco, nationalism derives from an “ideological syncretism” based on different European concepts of the “nation.” For Risco, nationalism is simultaneoulsy regional and international. As in Otero Pedrayo, nationalism for him includes not only the preservation of regional traditions but also a cultural interaction with other European nations. As stated by Francisco Bobillo, “Risco’s nationalist doctrine is a syncretic reading of ideas and issues very present in Europe at this time” (1981, 217). Risco defines the concept of “nation” as a natural community, which has come together through material and spiritual interests (2000, 18). In Risco’s words, Galicia as a nation is a fact. There is no need to even discuss whether Galicia is a nation or not. It is a nation in terms of history, culture, geography, and language: “Galicia is already a nation; Galician nationality is a geographical and historical fact that nobody can deny […] Galicia is a living organism, and has the right to live.”3 On the other hand, Risco views true Spain as a plural state, which is being threatened by political centralisms in Castile and Madrid (Risco 2000, 5). He demands from the Spanish central government a political, economic, and spiritual reconstruction in Galicia (2000, 6). Risco 3.

“Galicia é xa unha nación; a nacionalidade galega é un feito xeográfico e histórico que non se pode negar. Galicia é un organismo vivo, e polo feito de selo, ten dereito á vida” (Risco 2000, 27).

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considers federalism as the political alternative in Spain. He mentions Switzerland and the United States as democracies that care for multiculturalism and regional diversity. He also emphasizes that the Iberian nations must work together to undermine what he calls “Castilian Imperialism” (2000, 8–13). Moreover, one could add that Risco and Otero Pedrayo’s view of a more European Galicia parallels Feijoo, Jovellanos, Cadalso, and Larra’s notion of a more European Spain. In Spain, Ganivet also believed that Spaniards should expand their political and economic interests towards Europe, but the country should go first and foremost through a process of selfexamination in search of a common spirituality. In Judith Ginsberg’s words “[in his Idearium español (1897)], Ganivet presents a comprehensive and eminently flattering interpretation of the Spanish Volksgeist and uncompromising advice on how to achieve national regeneration by turning inward, cultivating spirituality” (1985, 70). Ganivet considers national character as a product of the environment. This deterministic view of society accounts for his notion of “territorial spirit,” which has allowed one critic to assert that “[i]n [Ganivet], geography becomes destiny, radiating a national spirit in which culture and territory coincide” (Resina 2001a, 172). Ganivet’s position is very influential and coincides with those of other Spanish intellectuals of the time: Unamuno’s En torno al casticismo (About purism, 1902), José Martínez Ruiz’s El alma castellana (Spanish soul, 1899), Rafael Altamira’s Psicología del pueblo español (Psychology of the Spanish people, 1902). Atlantismo might be considered Galicia’s version of Catalan Imperialisme or Portuguese Sebastianismo. “Atlantism” has to do with Galicia’s role in the world. Risco summarizes Galicia’s main features as a nation by highlighting: the ethnic hybridism of the Galician people (originated by Celts, Romans, Suevs); the singularity of the Galician language; Galicia’s own social order; and the Galician “mentality” as a synthesis of self-criticism, lyricism, romanticism, and passion (Risco 2000, 18–25). But Galicia, he says, also has a universal responsibility. Galicia is not only a nation in Spain but also a nation in Europe and the rest of the world. Risco thus encourages Galicians to create literature and visual arts, and to expand Galicia’s political and philosophical thought. In fact, Galicia must be different in order to exist as a nation: “To be different is to exist” (Risco 2000, 28). According to Risco, the Mediterranean civilization, the Iberian centralism, and the European ideals are exhausted. Atlantism is the new alternative, since it overcomes the past and the present, and creates the future. Atlantism involves “the seven Celtic nations: the Highlands in Scotland, Isle of Man, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall, Brittany, and Galicia” (Risco 2000, 32). Galicia’s historical mission is to reveal Atlantism as a new cultural and political source for future generations in Europe and America. Atlantism must substitute for what Risco calls “Mediterraneism” (brought into Spain by Roman imperialism). The spirit of the legendary Atlantida must become the symbol of the new Atlantic civilization (Risco 2000, 32–34). *** Spain and Portugal have not had a strong tradition of philosophers. Essay writing, in any case, provides a fascinating showcase of how intellectuals faced the many problems created by historical evolution and isolation. Their awareness of the differences between Europe and Peninsular nations has plagued intellectual life for decades, and has provoked a solid tradition of reflections about the nature of the Peninsula’s specificity with regard to the continent. These reflections have informed aesthetics, political, and moral issues. Essay writing has even created a trend to explain, from a scholarly perspective, these differences.

Section III. Forms of Mediation Coordinators: Cesc Esteve and María José Vega

Forms of mediation in the history of the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula Cesc Esteve and María José Vega Mediation is a relative concept, which presumes the presence of at least two elements, or two parts, between which a type of transference, approximation, or relation occurs. In the field of comparatism, mediation can be understood, in its broadest sense, as a way of referring to all the textual and institutional instruments that bring about the literary and interlinguistic relationships, the reception and recovery, as of the present, of classical literatures, and the assimilation of other modern literatures. This, of course, entails impossibly vast issues as complex as the ways each culture invents previous literatures and the uses of past literature (such as, for example, the political uses the Habsburgs made of Virgil’s Aeneid or the tale of the Argonauts). It also includes the tools that facilitate the connections between Iberian literatures themselves, or the connections between Iberian literatures and other vernacular literatures or classical or Hebrew literatures. We have preferred the term “mediation” to that of “intermediation,” in order to avoid the methodological implications of the latter and the connotations which it has picked up in the second half of the twentieth century, through the use of the so-called comparatism of relationships offered to the concept. Thus, we avoid presuming a linkage between it and other related notions, like that of relationships of contact, interference, circulation, and associated forms of mediation in the works of some classical comparatists — for example, François Guyard and Simon Jeune — and, in general, French comparatism of the 1960s. We would also understand that mediation is rarely neutral, but rather, interpretive. That is, it is not limited to promoting or exercising what classical comparatists understand as “contact”; rather, it transforms (physically and ideologically) the very materials that it transfers. For studying its forms, a good starting point could be the systematization that Julia H. Gaisser (1993) proposes in a seminal work on the reception of Catullus in modern Europe. Unlike the restrictive notions of mediation that we frequently find in comparatist manuals, Gaisser understands that mediations, in a broad sense, include all forms of edition, revision, and castigatio of literary works (as the editor determines the configuration of the text, its effective presentation, the form in which it is laid out for the reader, and often, its title and its internal divisions), liminal texts, dedicatory epistles, prefaces, and comments, that is, the interpretive interventions that affect meaning and direct the reading of the text and which, in a way, travel with it: they also include the closest imitations, rewritings, paraphrases, and incorporations into miscellanies and anthologies, as well as, on another level, parodies, as every parody contains, at the same time as it subverts, the parodied text, disseminates it, and symbolically reinterprets or forces its rereading. To all this we must add, lastly, translation, which is always, and necessarily, interpretive, and which can be doi 10.1075/chlel.29.25est © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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conceived as a form of rewriting which often depends heavily on other processes of mediation (editorial, paratextual, commentary-related). Understood in this way, mediation shows itself to be a key notion for explaining European cultural and literary history. Ultimately, mediation constructs tradition, which can be understood as a complex or dynamic set or summation of continuous textual mediations that are the product of a sustained and interested intellectual reelaboration of a few basic elements, like a creative and variable rewriting of other texts from the past or which come from other literary cultures. All of the processes that participate in the construction of the history of literature, without exception, could well be described as the result of complex mediations. In this process, material and technological aspects take on relevance and significance, aspects which are often excluded when we consider the idea of tradition or outline the protocol of supranational and supralinguistic comparatism, such as the forms of textual edition, layout of the page, the precise format of volumes, and in general, all that falls under the contemporary histoire du livre, which concerns the book as a material and symbolic object. In What is cultural history?, Peter Burke (2004) indicated that the idea of culture implied that of mediation and tradition, that is, of certain forms of knowledge, of skills, of ideas about the world, transmitted from generation to generation. The study of tradition would free the historian from the tendency to conceive of the culture of an age or a chronological period (the Enlightenment, say, or the Middle Ages) in a homogeneous way, since multiple traditions could coexist at any given moment. He anticipated, however, the danger of considering that mediation is an evident concept, and the risk of not being able to perceive, when examining it, its difficult dynamic of change and preservation (or of betrayal and faithfulness), the pitfalls of an only apparent innovation, which mask continuity without disturbing it, or of not being able to identify its subtle forms of change and appropriation. The work of two comparatists and historians devoted almost exclusively to the survival of the classical tradition through its continual rewritings constitutes, in his opinion, the exemplary representation of this paradox: he was referring specifically to Aby Warburg and Ernst Robert Curtius, who would come to represent, in one case, the emphasis on the forms of actualization and appropriation of cultural heritage and, thus, of innovation and change, and, in the other, the emphasis on the constance and persistence of the foundational elements of a culture, underneath the apparent change. The paradoxes and contradictions of mediation have dogged the classical studies of the great European comparatists since the second post-war period. In academic methods, the study of mediations as guarantors of continuity, and as a mechanism of the topicalization of the foundational elements of Hispanic literary culture, seems to have prevailed. But we must ask ourselves, for that reason, if this conception of mediation as a faithful exercise of transmission and dissemination does not impede us from seeing the changes and transformations of substance that the very exercise of mediation imposes on its material, without leaving a margin for innovation. In fact, longevity and invariability are the dominant characteristics that comparatists have attributed to the literary tradition. For many critics, conceiving of literature from the point of view of mediation requires us to perceive the object under the sign of continuity and similarity: for that alone, the more subtle variations, distortions, ideological displacements, the dense relationships that, in each mediation, a text establishes with the world and with its contemporary readers, the many forms in which, in each exercise of transmission, the incessant, interested, and contemporary reinterpretation of a classical cultural heritage or of the symbolic elements of other cultures, could go unnoticed.

Forms of mediation in the history of the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula295 Mediation, thus conceived, is a creative and critical process, and tradition (the reelaboration, transmission, commentary, publication, parody, rewriting, etc., of texts from the past) should not be understood as a burden, nor as an inevitable obligation, nor even as a source, but rather, above all, as an ideological arsenal that becomes updated and becomes a living heritage in a selective, finalized, intentional, interested, transformative, and variable way. The present is also constructed, or identified, through those elements from the past with which it chooses to dialogue, or those in which it wishes to recognize itself, or those which it invents for itself, or in the narrative syntax of those to which it submits and with which it articulates them. And the same can be said of the elements that come from other European cultures and literatures. Burke preferred to conceive of cultural tradition and mediation as a process of continual creation, and, à la Eric Hobsbawm, as an “invention” which, far from appearing ex nihilo, includes the use of ancient and foreign materials. There would not be, thus, pure or culturally innocent mediation, limited to faithfully transferring a text or a literary phenomenon. Like in the Borgesian paradox, which says that all good writers create their predecessors, all present, as least as regards what Stephen Greenblatt (1989) called the symbolical capital of a society, would establish, in a way, their own way of managing the past. Lucien Febvre had already stated that each period mentally creates its own representation of the historical past: we could speak, thus, taking this argument to the extreme, of a past of the past, which would constitute tradition in a specific sense. It is the mediators that ideologically create this past, by transmitting it, reinterpreting it, and actualizing it for its present uses: this is an act of actualization and reinterpretation, of elective finalization, of a series of texts and discourses. Thus, the forms that the reinterpretation of these ancient and foreign materials adopts are important, the specific and singular management, committed to the present, of each of the acts of mediation. Thus, we would understand, in a broad way, that forms of mediation include (and this enumeration does not claim to be exhaustive) edition and revision, paratexts, commentary, imitation, paraphrase, confuting, and parody; translation and the compilatory exercise of collections, polyantheas, polymathies, and anthologies; the forms of ideological and interpretive intervention of the school system, censorship, or the press. This list begins with the most direct intervention in the constitution of the literal being of the text, and proceeds to the more complex forms of interpretive mediation and performance on the textual material through incorporation into other contexts. Generally, forms of mediation are identified, in a restrictive way, with rewriting and translation. Without forgetting these in any way, and acknowledging their value as instruments of contact, we propose an additional reflection on other forms of mediation which are no less relevant for being omitted in the critical discourse. We consider especially noteworthy those that concern the operations of censorship and of the school system, which establish systems of reading or specific regimes of textual interpretation, and which, above all, set the correct relationship that readers must establish with a determined corpus of authors and texts. They govern the selection of “good books” and culturally proscribe those that are “bad,” “harmful,” and to be avoided. It is undeniable that a comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula cannot disregard the actions of the censors, the expurgatory practices, and the precise configuration of the indices of prohibited books that modified or cancelled the dissemination of many capital texts, Iberian, classic, and from the rest of Europe. Censorship can be understood as an intervention that reduces transmission, rewriting, and the exercise of textual mediation, which impedes the dissemination of texts (at least through the more conventional channels) and which forces, in many cases, new forms of dissemination (clandestine, anonymous, etc.). Furthermore, it is

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directly related to translation: that which state and religious apparatuses support and favor (the incessant translation and dissemination of the good books), as well as that which they prohibit (any version of a suspect or condemned book), are complementary forms of educational and ideological intervention. Censorship is highly relevant not only in its most powerful forms, like that of the Indices librorum prohibitorum that existed in Spain and Portugal, but also when it manifests itself in diluted ways; that is, not as condemnation and prohibition, but through expurgation (the expurgated book is the form of many classical books and also school books — not censored but highly intervened in for their dissemination) or through their elimination from educational contexts and from certain sectors of the population, like women or young people. It is well known that the printing press meant the birth of the public sphere in modern states and that it brought about a dramatic multiplication of the circulation of texts and ideas. These are the conditions that favored the generalization of instruments of creation of opinion and convictions, but also the implementation of mechanisms for its control. The censorship of books can be understood as one of the first and most effective systems of control of the public sphere, as a way of shaping the consciences of individuals through the intervention in textuality, as a method of simultaneously regulating texts, behavior, and consciousness. Thus, it is a tool for limiting and eradicating dissent and a way to establish and favor the dissemination of cultural, religious, and political principles through the elimination of their negation and alternatives. The Papacy’s project to control the circulation of books and ideas in the second half of the sixteenth century, in close collaboration with the Congregation of the Inquisition and the later Congregation of the Index, drastically changed the European and Hispanic cultural landscape. The repeated and systematic interventions to prohibit or expurgate books continued, from the sixteenth century, for four hundred years, and determined the cultural habits and the intellectual framework in which many writers and printers carried out their activities. Thanks to the opening of the archives of the Holy Office in 1998, we now know much more about the history of censorship and about the books that entered the Spanish, Portuguese, and Roman Indices. We also have a clearer perception of the extremely vast set of texts (from narrative fiction to history, from devotional literature to lyric poetry) that was attacked by the “tribunals of conscience” and we have more information about the delays, inefficiencies, conflicts, and difficulties that the effective application of the censorship plan faced in different moments and territories. The impact of censorship on European culture during the modern period still holds extreme importance due to its effects on contemporary Iberian and European culture, as is perceptible, for example, in the resistance to reading in the Southern countries that form the Counter-Reformist arch. The fracture of Christianity in the sixteenth century was possibly the main cause of the origin and development, in the first modern age, of the repressive ecclesiastic organs centralized in Rome, which did not limit themselves, nonetheless, to defending the Catholic orthodoxy or extirpating the Protestant dissent. Their goals were more ambitious, as they aspired to control, repress, and orient all branches of knowledge and the totality of written production in the countries faithful to Rome. Their methods have raised a great deal of interest among researchers, thanks in large part to the opening of the archives, but many of the repercussions and consequences of the universal Roman prohibitions in Catholic countries and their colonies abroad remain unexplored. In particular, the founding principles of the theory of modern censorship and its political and poetic legitimation remain in the shadows, and the study of the literature prohibited in the Iberian Peninsula has not yet been carried out. For this reason, it is necessary to complete more

Forms of mediation in the history of the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula297 studies on how censorship affected the principal sectors of editorial production and, above all, such studies would be most relevant for evaluating the limits of religious intolerance. Such would be the case of fiction and entertainment literature, or devotional literature (including hagiography and sacred history) in the vernacular languages of the Iberian Peninsula. Only thus can we verify the impact of Roman and local rules and the forms of resistance in Portugal and Spain, in each political, cultural, and institutional context. On another level, education systems also can be described as instruments for ideological intervention: it is in them that the tensions of the fixation or modification of the canon (which is, in itself, a school product) are manifested. School favors the reading of certain texts to the detriment of others because it proposes them as models: stylistic, moral, religious, political, national, or identitary models. Therefore, it sets the “good books” (in a complementary way to censorship, which prohibits the “bad books”) and also the correct way of understanding them. As women are included in learning to read and write, the differences between the readings proposed to males and to girls and adolescents (and also adult women) become perceptible. During a good part of Spanish history, these books are not the same, and it is the duty of an attentive comparatist to consider these cultural differences in the use of the texts. Thus, we must separately consider the issue of school mediation in the readings of males and in the readings of Christian women and, especially, we must examine the relation of pious and devotional readings secularly destined for women’s education as a singular case. The most conspicuous (the imitations of Christ and the deploring of the world, the lives of the saints or, to give an example repeated across Europe, Jerome’s Epistles) generally respond to what today we would consider non-literary texts, since fiction and entertainment literature, independently of their goodness or style, were secularly considered to be profane books, which did not have a beneficial effect on the morality of women, and which encouraged some of their most reprehensible innate tendencies. The abundant product of women’s institutions in Spain, Portugal, and Europe facilitates our approach to this phenomenon from the discourse of the moralists and teachers, and also reveals the nature of the banned readings upon which the school or the Church exerts a form of broad domestic or private censorship, in the home or in the confessional (from the pastoral Dianas of the sixteenth century to lyric love poetry or novels of knightly deeds, love letters or books that contain them, etc.). In addition to rewriting, translation, and paratext, as textual forms of reelaboration, and in addition to the forms of intervention in reading by the Church and school, we will also consider in these pages other forms of mediation that function through selective compilation and collection: the (good) books, constructed through excerpta and juxtaposition of texts. The modern anthology (leaving aside the school anthology, as school has always been an institution that has generated collections and encyclopedic and anthological instruments) seems more related to the dissemination of poetry in verse in the last two centuries. The concept is ancient, was generalized in the age of the printing press with the publication of anthologies of the Greek lyric, like the Palatine or Planudean, and is related to Byzantine philological activity and to the nature of its interventions (school ones as well) on the classical texts. Understood in the broad sense, the anthology is an instrument of compilation and selection, related to other compilatory genres devoted to prose works (in contrast to the initial specialization of the anthology in the dissemination of verse), although anthology, as etymology teaches us, usually referred initially to lyric poetry and to short compositions in verse, in contrast to other forms of collection devoted to the prose of ideas, to gnomological or sapiential literature, to the epistle

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or to dialogue, that is, to silvas, oficinas, historiae variae, polyantheas, and encyclopedias of the pre-Enlightenment. The European and supranational dissemination of this type of book, especially when dealing with Latin collections, and of the most famous Iberian compilations, incessantly translated to all the languages of Europe, forces us to also consider the incidence of these instruments of mediation. Selva, silva, polyanthea, encyclopedia, and varia historia are recognized in Europe as a miscellaneous genre, composed of other texts, and including curiosities, admirable examples, etymological dissertations, lists of inventors, dicta worthy of recording, and great deeds of famous men and women, of legislators and kings. Varia historia is the most usual Latin title for this type of collection, although the uncontestable success of a vernacular work, Pedro Mexía’s Silva de varia lección (Collection of histories), generalized that name for its vulgar designation in modern European literatures. Aulus Gellius’s Noctes atticae (Attic nights) and Macrobius’ Saturnalia are usually acknowledged as the most conspicuous and long-lasting precedents of the modern encyclopedic genres: in fact, Gellius designated his work according to its nature of mixture and for the distinctive trait of variety (variam et miscellam), if not for the confusion and disorder in the disposition of the materials (confusaneam doctrinam), which follow each other pell-mell (ordinem rerum fortuito). If historiae variae interest us here it is because of their condition as mediators of ancient and patristic literature and history and of the best of modern literatures. Furthermore, the collections often attained a circulation greater than that of the texts on which they were based, and offered materials that were linguistically accessible and easy to use, which saved readers from going directly to the sources. For centuries, they offered a knowledge of classical and modern texts conveniently anchored to a general theme, to a saying, to an exemplary phrase, to a morality or teaching, and conveniently presented in only one language: they combined what we now know as literature in the strictest sense, or, more precisely, the fictional tale (with the exclusion of dramatic genres), with historical cases, famous dicta, and fragments of verse. They combined the function of anthology with that of the encyclopedia, and all of it with that of the book of curiosities and secrets. The image of the selva for these immense apparatuses of textuality and erudition (of the selva [forest] of letters and symbols, in which the hunter-reader always finds a prey) has had a precise rhetorical significance since the time of Quintilian, and was linked to a form of decurrere per materiam, or of approaching an issue with extremely rapid style, without a precise will of organization, as an accumulation of material that later could be transported to the seats of its invention. The idea of varia lección is no less Latinist, and recalls the lectiones or readings of the classics that are now offered to a new reading public. Perhaps the words of Pedro Mexía can serve to outline the common traits of these texts of texts; he affirmed that they serve to save from sleepless nights “those who do not understand Latin books.” He offers, thus, a book of readings from others, a book of books, above all of inaccessible ones, of those desired and needed by those who do not know the learned language that served for decades for intellectual exchange, or for those who cannot converse firsthand with the Greco-Latin classics: thus, it exercises cultural mediation between Greco-Latin literature and the vernacular literatures. The varia lección is, thus, a canonical instrument (as it turns to canonical texts) and also a derivative product, decanted in an encyclopedic tradition of vulgar silvae, of oficinas and polyantheas. Anthologies and collections exercise, in this way, an undoubtable and transformative mediation between the high Latin culture and the vernacular culture, between classic and modern

Forms of mediation in the history of the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula299 texts, between texts of lesser dissemination and those of greater cultural presence, and they also respond to a new need, born in the age of the printing press: that of finding, in a time of a dramatic multiplication of textuality and books, digests or selective instruments that allow readers to approach a great number of works in an efficient and rapid way. It follows, from all of the above, that the idea of mediation that structures this section does not only attend to acts of rewriting, but also to acts of reading, to the interventions that determine specific paths of reading of other classical and modern texts. Thus, we adopt a broader and more complex perspective, which links the text with cultural history, with the material object of the book, and with the history and theory of reading, understood as an intellectual activity that nonetheless has public relevance and that has been regulated by institutions, through prescription and proscription. Given the vastness of the issues that we are discussing in this introduction and the impossibility of considering them in a representative way in all Iberian literatures, in their mutual relationships, and with their ties to the classical past and to contemporary European literature, we have necessarily proceeded by selecting representative cases, which we consider significant and methodologically exemplary, of each of these principal methods of interpretive mediation. Each important phenomenon of mediation is approached through a case study which allows an analysis, through slices or flashes, of the complexity of cultural mediations in the sphere of Iberian literatures. The first case studies of this section are devoted to practices of mediation which, for years, were worthy of the almost exclusive interest of critics and historians, that is to say, the forms of rewriting, and, in particular, to imitation and translation. The first chapter, “Imitatio, rewriting and tradition,” by Lara Vilà, analyzes an exemplary case of rewriting, which makes obvious the methodological problems and the political and ideological implications of the reception of the classics in modern literatures. The history of the learned epic, and more specifically its reelaboration through the poems composed in Spain in the sixteenth century, illustrates the various and complex factors of artistic and ideological mediation that participate in the imitation of model works and in the construction of canons and literary traditions, institutionalized practices that constitute, in turn, the contexts that mediate the interpretations and valorizations that readers make of works. The chapter examines the interpretive presuppositions and the political ends in which Virgilian imitation rests, and inserts it, in turn, into a reelaboration of the Homeric epic with a nationalist slant. Virgilian imitation, thus, is inscribed into a literary and critical tradition that emphasizes the historiographical and propagandistic functions of the genre. For that reason, by becoming a model, the Virgilian epic consolidates formal and ideological continuities that delimit and channel the rewriting of epic motives in the reigns of Charles V and Philip II. The symbolic and prophetic interpretation of the sixteenth-century epics also serves nationalist or patriotic ends, to commemorate victories and foretell the Western dominion of the new Christian empire of the Habsburgs. The second chapter, “Translation and cultural mediation in the fifteenth-century Hispanic kingdoms: The case of Catalonia,” is devoted to translation, conceived of as a specific mode of rewriting. Josep Pujol presents the idea of the translator as cultural mediator and transmitter of academic knowledge to a public that has an average education. The mediation of translation into the vernacular is illustrated through various cases, especially from the 1400s, when Catalan versions of classical and patristic works (Aristotle, Cicero, Augustine), or works originally written in Catalan, are translated into Castilian. The translation mediated by another Peninsular language

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and from one to another is explained, in the fifteenth century, by the political and cultural context that arises from the Trastamaran dominion of the Catalan-Aragonese and Castilian courts, which promotes the circulation, exchange, and influence of authors and works between different linguistic centres. In some cases, the Catalan translations of classical works are, in turn, mediated by translations from extra-Peninsular languages, such as Occitan and French, due to the political and cultural relationships that Catalonia maintained with Occitania from the twelfth century on. The mediating function of the vernacular translations is also defined by the systematic incorporation of glosses and commentaries on the original into the new version, which thus broadens its capacity for dissemination and its rhetorical and lexical exemplarity, and becomes a new model of literary imitation, as the case of Tirant lo Blanc, in which the principal sources that are rewritten are translations of that type, illustrates. Towards the mid-1400s, the mediation of French versions in the translation into Catalan of classical works decreases, and that of Catalan in the translation into Castilian: due to access to more Latin originals, direct translation increases, and under the influence of Humanism Italian becomes the main Romance language for cultural mediation. During the 1500s, however, interest in putting Catalan works into Castilian continues, as occurs with the poetry of Ausiàs March and the novel of Joanot Martorell. The following chapters are devoted to mediations in the act of reading and interpretation. The third, “Paratexts and mediation. The case of Ausiàs March in the sixteenth century,” by Cesc Esteve, explores the incidence of paratexts to determine the path of reading and understanding of the texts, and evaluates the influence of the liminal texts in the reception of the works they accompany. The chapter examines liminal texts of the sixteenth-century editions of Ausiàs March’s poetry to highlight the functions of mediation in the interpretation and valorization of the work and of the author that paratexts like the titles, the dedications, the prologues, and the vidas (lives) that frame the creative texts carry out. The analysis of the case reveals how the image that editors, commentators, and biographers wish to construct of the poet and his work is, in turn, mediated by those presuppositions and strategies that the criticism has used to canonize other vernacular poets. The most conspicuous model of mediation is that of the Petrarchian cancionero (songbook), which applies to March in the division, translation, and expurgation of his poems, in their interpretation and imitation by sixteenth-century poets, and in the construction of a life, a personality, and a romantic relationship designed in the image of the Italian poet. Thus, the Valencian’s condition of vulgar classic and landmark of the national literary tradition is sustained by a philological, critical, and historical treatment analogous to that which is offered to the classical and modern masters. Thus, the liminal texts put the emphasis on the need to rescue from obscurity and disseminate March’s work, to restore with rigor the original text, and clarify the intention and meaning of the verses: they put the reader in a position to appreciate their eloquence, philosophical depth, and moral benefit, and to compare their achievements to the greatest classical and vernacular writers. They are the protocol of critical mediation necessary for converting March into a modern classic. The fourth chapter is devoted to school reading as a practice of institutionalized mediation in the interpretation of texts. In “Quis libri legendi: The canon and the forms of its assimilation in Renaissance rationes studiorum,” Iveta Nakládalová explores the ideas of reading buried in the pedagogical literature of the Spanish Renaissance and their diverse criteria of mediation, which affect the selection, interpretation, and imitation of educational texts. Such criteria take part, thus, in the formation of the school canon and in the conceptualization of the reading experience and

Forms of mediation in the history of the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula301 the practices of writing. The chapter examines the theoretical justification and the use of these forms of mediation in various discourses. One of them is the humanist defence of the reading of classical authors as a method for learning Latin, which requires limiting and controlling the perception of pagan literature to ensure that its interpretation is ethically beneficial in accordance with Catholic doctrine. Another case that is examined is that of the Jesuit ratio studiorum, which selects and expurgates the classical texts so that they can be used as stylistic and rhetorical models that are not harmful, due to their contents, to the spiritual education of the reader. The mediation that books of commonplace sayings exercise is also important, because they offer a way of accessing ancient culture, and they promote the imitation and reuse of classical sources in new texts, discourses, and sermons. Repertories of topoi and notebooks regulate what the most significant and memorable parts of each text are, and determine to which categories their contents correspond and how they should be correctly assimilated and reused. There is no shortage of people who disapprove of the proliferation of these pedagogical instruments and their effects of mediation between the reader and the work, and between reading and writing, believing that they cause bad digestion of the sources, that is, an incomplete and decontextualized assimilation of the works, which can derive into a superficial imitation of little originality. To conclude, the chapter highlights ways in which the pedagogical discourse of the first modern age subjects all criteria of mediation to the moral presupposition that reading should serve, above all, to help the reader learn to live righteously. In the fifth chapter, “Translation in diaspora: Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century,” David Wacks studies the Hebrew translations of La Celestina, Amadís de Gaula, and López de Gómara’s Historia general de las Indias (General history of the Indies) done by Sephardic writers in the sixteenth century. The analysis of these translations makes clear that the Sephardic mediation between Spanish and Hebrew literature was not ideologically neutral, nor was its sole purpose to facilitate the Jewish community’s access to Spanish-language texts. The very choice of original works and the ways they are presented to the readership when they are translated into Hebrew involved a complex combination of appropriation and deauthoring strategies for the most illustrious sixteenth-century Spanish literature. The translations of these Spanish-language works were among the instruments with which the Sephardic Jews expelled from the Iberian Peninsula represented their culture for the Jewish communities in which they had settled following their second diaspora. The Sephardic Jews asserted precisely this experience of forced migration from the Spanish kingdoms as a guarantee of their authority to translate and assimilate Spanish literature to a language, culture, and identity marked by the diaspora and the tension between the desire to return to their homeland and the need to adapt to new lands and communities. The Sephardic Jews’ Hebrew translations attempted to favor an interpretation of the original works that was in keeping with the values of the Jewish diaspora. This process of “reauthoring” of Spanish literature and of the Sephardic community took place, in the case of the lost translation of La Celestina, through an introductory poem that highlighted the misogynistic discourse in Fernando de Rojas’s work, in order to reinscribe it into the Sephardic Jews’ own literary tradition, which was particularly rich during the Middle Ages. The translation of Amadís, addressed to the Jewish communities settled in the Ottoman Empire, cleansed the original text of many of its references to Christianity, to the Arthurian imaginary, and to the models of courtly culture of the Spanish elite. With this, the translation rid the original work not only of elements that were uncomfortable for or incomprehensible to its readers,

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but also of those that were representative of Spanish imperialist ideology. The translation of the Historia de las Indias involved a harsher and more explicit critique of imperialism and the colonial enterprise of the Spanish monarchy, in this case through glosses and amendments of the original text and in some cases, through rewritings and added fragments that offered a version of the facts that discredited López de Gómara’s and that was more closely related to the ideological values of the translator and the community of readers to which his work was addressed. In the sixth chapter, Joseba Gabilondo analyzes the imperial history of Spain and transatlantic colonial relations as factors of mediation in the formation of Spanish Enlightenment. In “The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment: On the imperial-colonial and Morisco-Basque mediations of the Spanish Enlightenment,” the author’s colonial and Atlantic geopolitical perspective identifies two Spanish Enlightenments mediated by different histories and geographies and irreducible to a single, homogeneous national Enlightenment movement. Hence, this approach allows us to reconsider the idea (hegemonic in historiography) of a national Enlightenment that failed or that was insufficient compared to the achievements and the modernity of European Enlightenment. The first Iberian Enlightenment studied in this chapter formed from majismo, that is, the Spanish aristocracy’s appropriation of the ideology and aesthetic of majos. Majo culture came from the south of the Peninsula, below its surface it had strong Morisco, gypsy, and convert components, and socially it identified with the subaltern classes. It was also a mixed and popular culture, associated with the baroque aesthetic and with conservative and castizo values; it conserved and symbolized everything that the Spanish empire had set out to repress and eradicate. Hence, the intellectual elite’s majismo involved distancing the Spanish Enlightenment from the Francophilia that had dominated, and meant coming back to values, customs, and cultural manifestations understood as ancient forms of resistance of communities that in the past had been the victims of the Spanish empire. Majismo’s culture of resistance, preserved in the Morisco and convert heritage, and testimony to the survival of the subaltern in Spanish colonial and imperial history, was adopted by the educated aristocracy in order to counter the pressure of the new European imperialisms and led to some of the ideological bases of Spanish romantic nationalism. The second Iberian Enlightenment studied in this chapter was that which formed from the cultural and commercial relations between the Peninsula and the American colonies. More specifically, this part of the work deals with the decisive mediation of the Reales Sociedades Económicas (Royal Economic Societies) and, in particular, of the Real Sociedad Bascongada de los Amigos del País (Royal Basque Society of Friends of the Country) in the formation of that Atlantic and colonial Enlightenment. The French upbringing of the Basque nobility channeled the influence of Enlightenment thought toward the Peninsula and promoted the foundation of the Real Sociedad Bascongada. In turn, the Society disseminated Enlightenment ideology through the Atlantic communications network that the Basque Country had consolidated through the establishment of a commercial market with the American colonies. More particularly, the Society’s ideological, technological, and cultural program and the dissemination of essays and reports containing new knowledge in agriculture, industry, and economy were carried out in Venezuela through the Compañía de Caracas, which maintained strong ties to the Real Sociedad Bascongada, since many of its shareholders were also members of it. The Compañía de Caracas published manifestos in which it adopted Enlightenment ideals to justify the social, cultural, and economic benefits of its presence in Venezuela: among other aspects, it emphasized its adhesion to scientific empiricism and to the principle of moderation in all its activities, its contribution to

Forms of mediation in the history of the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula303 the increase in agricultural production, to industry stimulus, and to the construction of infrastructure. This propaganda attempted unsuccessfully to overcome the opposition that Basque Enlightenment colonialism had provoked in Venezuela. The intense traffic of commercial and cultural capital with the mother country was precisely the factor that made Venezuela become the center of the Enlightenment movement in Latin America and exercise an important influence in the colonies’ independence processes. The Real Sociedad Bascongada preferred to leave out of its essays the obvious fact that the Basque Enlightenment project depended on the economic exploitation of the colonies. However, this deliberate omission in the way in which the Enlightenment elite represented themselves cannot obscure the fact that the history and geography of the empire and of its relations with the colonies and the subaltern classes decisively shaped the Spanish Enlightenment. The seventh chapter, “The anthology as an instrument of mediation,” by María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar, presents the nature and the functions of the mediation of poetic anthologies, and illustrates their relevance in the formation and institutionalization of the Catalan and Galician literary systems during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The compilatory genres that preceded the anthology reveal their power of mediation in the conception and the uses of literature: such is the case of the medieval cancionero, which turned out to be determinant for the continued association of the lyric with traits like brevity, fragmentation, and intensity, and plays a decisive role in the preservation and ordering of Occitan, Catalan, and Galician poetry. The modern poetic anthology is one of the mechanisms that historiography and criticism deploy to represent national literary spaces and identify generations, periods, and thematic and stylistic lines. Also, the anthology mediates between the reader and the texts not only by selecting the materials, but also by transmitting the historiographical, ideological, and esthetic criteria with which it justifies its choices and exclusions, and explaining the meaning and the value of the collected works. Galician and Catalan poetic anthologies of the second half of the nineteenth century serve to preserve, collect, and classify texts, but in the political and cultural projects of the Rexurdimento and the Renaixença (Renaissance) they also become instruments for modeling community imaginaries and constructing their cultural and national identities. The growing interest in the study of the anthology is explained above all by the importance of the genre in the formation of literary canons: as an instrument of legitimation or contestation of the hierarchies of values, taste, genres, and works sanctioned by the hegemonic criticism. The chapter also examines the connection of anthologies with the disciplinary practices of the discourses of knowledge, the tensions that emerge between their globalizing, monological, and universalist vocation, and their necessarily finite and partial nature. It also offers for consideration the power of anthologies to transform — or rewrite — texts; to give them new meanings by situating them in new or different contexts. This resource is especially useful for vindicating literary repertories that, like the Galician and Catalan, have suffered a historical depreciation. Lastly, the author highlights the double mediation that anthological translation entails, and the influence that anthologies of one literature or in one language have on the development of translated compilations, which does not only affect the selection of works, but also includes the projection of models of periodological interpretation and esthetic categorization. Isabel Clúa, the author of the eighth chapter, “Cultural nationalism and school,” assumes that one of the most relevant functions of ideological, political, and cultural mediation that modern education plays is the propagation of cultural nationalism. To illustrate this principle, the chapter

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examines the ways in which the teaching of literature in school has intervened in the formation of Spanish national identity during the last two centuries, and illustrates the consequences that these processes of mediation have for the reception and interpretation of literary texts. The study of literature in school becomes one of the diverse channels through which the discourse of cultural nationalism, created by the ruling classes, manages to be disseminated in the form of knowledge among the collective. Thus, the mandatory reading of Don Quixote, for example, is added to other methods designed to foment patriotic exaltation in the Restoration period. The forms of literary mediation in school touch the organization of the curriculum, the selection of works and authors, and the construction of coherent series and narratives that project onto the texts common traits that serve to construct the national literature. Clúa’s work reveals the validity of the ideological mediation of cultural nationalism in these educational processes through the example of the treatment given to Spanish literature at the end of the nineteenth century in syllabi for competitions for teaching bodies and in recent textbooks. Hence, the desire to perpetuate an idea of Spanish national literature determines that the literature of the Generation of 98 is described through a schema that hierarchically opposes those that it considered its traits — the own, the intellectual and political, the deep and authentic — with the traits it attributes to modernism, which at that time remained associated with the foreign, the formal and esthetic, and the superficial and fake. Such a schema, which imposes and transmits itself through school despite its evident conceptual and historical contradictions, brings the need to obviate all the late-century literature that does not fit its parameters, and to apply, to the works that it does consider, readings that are slanted by the presuppositions of interpretation that a tale sanctions — a master narrative — mediated by the prejudices and interests of Spanish cultural nationalism. In “The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country: Origins of a literary subfield,” the ninth chapter of this section, Ur Apalategui describes the historical process that has carried the literature of Iparralde, in the French Basque Country, from the center to the periphery of the Basque literary system and analyzes the various strategies that French Basque writers have used to become more visible in Basque literary culture. The progressive marginalization of the Basque literature of Iparralde began at the beginning of the twentieth century and became more noticeable as of the First World War. Until then, and all throughout the Modern Age, Iparralde had been a culturally dynamic and productive region in terms of literary creation, in which a prestigious literary language had been consolidated. The main causes of the cultural and literary decline of Iparralde were the low level of industrialization of the region and its inhabitants’ increased sense of belonging to the French nation and culture, provoked by the surge of French patriotism after the war. In contrast, industrial and urban modernization were much more marked in Hegoalde, in the Spanish Basque Country, where Basque language and literature received the support of the emerging Basque nationalist movement. Despite Francoist repression, the center of the Basque literary system crept southward, with a decisive push in the 1970s due to the formation of a standard Basque language based on various dialects from the Spanish Basque Country. Around Iparralde, there were no institutions that could extend the knowledge and use of the euskara batua, and hence there was no possibility of maintaining an industry in this market that could compete with the publishing centers that had sprung up in San Sebastián and Bilbao. The standardization of Basque significantly reduced the possibility for dissemination of literature written in the dialects of Iparralde, but not its prestige, as it came be known as the most genuine representation of the classical Basque tradition.

Forms of mediation in the history of the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula305 In any case, this recognition did not change the status of peripheral subfield that the literature of the French Basque Country currently holds. The writers that are part of this subfield can be classified according to their relation with the center of the Basque literary system and with the center of their own subsystem, categorized mainly by the use of the Labourdin dialect. Authors who write exclusively for an Iparralde readership occupy the periphery of the Basque literary system and the center of the northern subsystem. Assimilated writers are those who, unlike natives, adopt as a literary language the main dialect rather than their own dialect. On the other hand, there are authors who write from Iparralde for all readers in the Basque literary system. These authors claim to overcome their marginal or peripheral condition without submitting their work to a process of assimilation into the linguistic and literary codes of the center. On the contrary, they seek recognition through the transformation of the structure of interests and values at the heart of the system. Daniel Landart is the most prominent representative of native writers who occupy the center of the Iparralde literary subsystem and the most known of those who continue the classic tradition. The goal of Itxaro Borda’s literary career has been to reach the entire readership of the Basque Country. In successive phases of her career, the author has been critical of the conservatism of Iparralde literary culture, has opted to use the standard language and has published with Spanish Basque presses, has questioned the principles and interests that hold up the hierarchy of the Basque literary system, and has renewed the registers of Labourdin to show that its use need not be seen as a conservative option. On the other hand, the stylistic and ideological choice that we see in Aurelia Arkotxa’s poetry is classicist and elitist, and in it the residual and dying nature of the northern tradition is swathed in nobility and nostalgia. The predominant attitude among authors of the new generation is more non-critical of the Basque literary system and conformist towards the peripheral situation of the literature of Iparralde. Many of them have been educated in ikastolas, but they use the standard northern dialect as a literary language and seek to rehabilitate the reading public of Iparralde as a readership. At the periphery of the periphery we find literature written by authors who were not educated in the ikastolas system. The works of Itzaina, Etxeberri, and Urruspil reveal a more critical and combative consciousness toward the isolation and decline of a literature with few readers and of a language with no legal protection and in great need of public initiatives to promote its social use as a necessary first step for the literary restoration of Iparralde. In chapter ten, “Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal: An overview of the literature translated in periods of dictatorship in the Iberian Peninsula,” Cristina Gómez Castro analyzes the systems of literary censorship implanted in Spain and Portugal during the dictatorships of Franco, in Spain, and Salazar and Caetano in Portugal. More specifically, this piece examines the repercussions of those regimes’ policies of control and monitoring of books on the translation of foreign fiction into Castilian or Portuguese. In the initial phases of both dictatorships, translations of foreign, and particularly, English-language, fiction were numerous and they made up for the lack of literary output in Spanish and Portuguese and the stagnation of the publishing industry. The crisis of both literary systems was due to the effects of the war, to the population’s high levels of illiteracy, and to policies of cultural isolationism developed by both dictatorships. The two regimes were fairly permissive regarding translations of foreign fiction, believing that they could be a good stimulus to revitalize their respective publishing industries. In Spain, the penetration of harmful ideological influences, according to Francoist

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ideology, was controlled through prior censorship of the translations, which only reached the public if they received official authorization from the government. The criteria for censorship were less severe in both countries in cases of translation from Castilian or from Portuguese. Furthermore, translations were usually uncontroversial in ideological terms because editors preferred to avoid problems with the censors and tended to select original works based on commercial criteria. These interests favored the translation of escapist and entertainment literature, such as the Victorian novel and detective and science fiction stories. The most frequently censored material was that which went against the principles of sexual morality defended by Franco’s and Salazar and Caetano’s regimes: that which propagated ideas that went against the dictators’ power, that which questioned the Catholic religion or criticized the ecclesiastic hierarchy, and that which used language considered indecorous, indecent, or harmful for the maintenance of the citizenry’s upstanding habits. As time went on, in the 1960s and 1970s, in both regimes, the censors’ criteria and means of control tended to become more flexible and relaxed. The early 1970s are the period in which Spanish and Portuguese translations of William Peter Blatty’s novel The exorcist were censored. An examination of this case makes clear the shared criteria between the Spanish and Portuguese censors, which allowed the publication of a novel that appeared to give a positive image of the Catholic Church. The case also illustrates the mediation effects of censorship in these regimes, not only in the results of translation work but also in its practice, as it induced translators to censor their own work preemptively. And above all, it shows the repercussions of censorship on the formation of national literary systems, as it became an effective instrument for determining and channeling public taste, the activities of the publishing industry, and trends in literary creation that aligned with the interests of these dictatorships.

Imitatio, rewriting and tradition Shields in Iberian epics Lara Vilà One of the fundamental concepts for understanding literary tradition is imitatio. And it should not be considered blind imitation. On the contrary, the classical legacy is rewritten in a purposeful way and in this rewriting there are mediations that favor the circulation of particular texts as well as the way they should be interpreted. Although the literary tradition is constructed essentially by imitation of models considered canonical, this imitation never occurs in a vacuum nor is mechanical. There are ideological, literary or formal factors which play a role in the process. Below, we propose an example that will allow us to thoroughly understand this notion of imitatio and to see how it is essential to the construction of a literary tradition, in this case, that of the epic poetry of the Renaissance.

Case study: The imitations of Aeneas’s shield When speaking of Renaissance epic, it is essential to refer to the genre’s canonical model: Virgil’s Aeneid. Given the impossibility of examining the work here at length and in depth, as it deserves, we will focus on studying one concrete passage of the poem, the ekphrasis or description of Aeneas’s shield (Aen. 8.625–731), and how it was imitated by some authors in the modern period. This is a significant episode because, being the last of the four historical prophecies in Virgil’s poem, it acts as an ending and, above all, as a culmination of the future foreseen for Aeneas and Rome. Briefly, the shield reviews some of the most recent episodes in Roman history (the three previous prophecies having covered the time period since the establishment of Aeneas and the founding of Alba Longa). It describes the founding of the city by Romulus and Remus and ends with the triumphant entrance and the apotheosis of Augustus Caesar after his victory over Oriental forces at Actium. In the images engraved by Vulcan we see, in the following order (which corresponds to the chronological succession of the events), Romulus and Remus in Mars’s cave suckling the Capitoline Wolf (8.630–34); the rape of the Sabine women and the ensuing war (8.635–38); the peace and the alliance between Romulus and Tatius (8.639–41); the execution of the traitor Mettius Fufetius (8.641–43); the bravery of Cocles and Cloelia during the siege of Rome by Porsenna (8.646–51); the heroism of Manlius, savior of Rome during the Gallic attack (8.652–61); the religious celebrations of General Camillus’s victory over Greece (8.665); Catiline suffering in Tartarus and Cato enacting laws to the pious souls (8.670); and, finally, in the centre of the shield, although mentioned last, the battle of Actium, where, according to Virgil, Augustus’s Rome faces off against Mark Antony and Cleopatra’s Egypt (8.670–713). The description of the battle ends with the victor’s triumphant entrance into the city to be paid homage by the defeated (8.714–28). After the description of these images, Aeneas, astonished, accepts his mother’s gift and, though he does not understand what he has seen, places the shield on his shoulders, or,

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which is the same thing, “attolens umero famamque et fata nepotum” (8.731; “uplifting on his shoulders the fame and fortunes of his children’s children”; Virgil 1964–69, 2:111). This last verse closes the ekphrasis and determines the traditional reading of the passage, already announced in a previous verse in which the reader is informed that on the shield, which is also called a “non enarrabile textum” (Aen. 8.625; “ineffable fabric”; Virgil 1964–69, 2:103), Vulcan has carved all the history of Italy and the triumphs of Rome, “res Italas Romanorumque triumphos” (8.626). These verses that frame the description, as well as the fact that the hero does not understand the meaning of what he has just seen, show us that the passage is fundamentally addressed to the reader, who is the one who can give meaning to the historical episodes referred in it: the shield is the history of Rome, a history that should be read in a triumphalist style, and, more importantly, as the review of a progress, as the rise of a people from the obscurity and the nothingness symbolized by the she-wolf ’s cave to a joyful present, when a radiant Augustus, seated at the temple of the sun god Apollo, holds absolute power over the world. It should be noted how Virgil has left to the end, in keeping with a highly chronological description, the episode of Actium, although—in one of the few spatial references to the layout of the images on the shield—it occupies the center. In other words: the vision of the battle and the apotheosis of Augustus should have opened the ekphrasis and not closed it, since, indubitably, the central figures should have been those that would attract the hero’s attention the most. Such manipulation is one of the many keys that support the traditional pro-imperial reading of the passage (and of the poem). The description of the episodes, thus, just like their selection, responds to an ideologically slanted presentation of what the history of Rome must be: the ekphrasis closes with the vision of Actium and of Augustus just as the very history of Rome. This episode is the culmination of the progress of the Roman race and nation because it marks the beginning of a new era, predicted to be prosperous and peaceful, the Pax Augusta, which will give Rome and its emperor world power. This is not the place to go into a detailed interpretation of the passage (for further reading, see Hardie 1986, Quint 1992, and Vella 2004, which I have followed in part). Nonetheless, I do not wish to continue without attending at least briefly to the Homeric model of Aeneas’s shield, because it is also relevant to our understanding of how a tradition is constructed through a mediated and purposeful imitation of a canonical author. Considering it here is pertinent because it will help us understand the rewritings that the Western epic tradition, in turn, will produce of Virgil’s ekphrasis. As the entirety of Virgilian criticism has indicated since Servius, the oldest critic of whom we have a written record, the Mantuan poet here rewrites the description Homer had offered of the shield of Achilles in book 18 of the Iliad. The context which gives rise to both descriptions is more or less the same: the mothers of both heroes decide to equip their sons properly for the upcoming fights and ask the god of the forge to manufacture new arms for them. There are, however, some differences worth to be noticed. Firstly, the petition of Thetis, mother of Achilles, has a motivation that is lacking in that of Venus, mother of Aeneas: Achilles has lost his weapons; the Trojan hero has not. Secondly, the scenes depicted on Achilles’s shield are not, like those depicted on Aeneas’s, historical episodes. On the contrary, the Greek poet has opted to show diverse scenes with no concrete historical reference, although, and this is also interesting, they are perfectly and unequivocally laid out on the shield. We know that it is divided into various concentric circles and we also know which images occupy each one: in the centre are the earth, the sky, and the sea (Iliad 18.483–89); on the first ring, scenes of two

Shields in Iberian epics309 cities, the first at war and the second at peace (18.490–540); on the second ring we see country life through agricultural settings, scenes of livestock breeding and pastoral life (18.541–90); on the next ring we see the dance of Daedalus (18.591–606); and lastly, on the border, is the Ocean (18.607–08). What relation is there between these images and those of the historical episodes on the shield of Aeneas? If we focus on strictly formal aspects, some might object that we are facing here an apparently superficial imitation. Both descriptions, obviously, fit into the same narrative context: it seems as though Virgil had mechanically imitated Homer’s passage, and furthermore, had done so imperfectly, since his description lacks the precision achieved by Homer (in fact, such was the interpretation of Gotthold Ephraim Lessing in the comparatio of both passages in his Laocoon). As we will see, this appraisal varies substantially when we have at hand various elements that are very relevant to the reading of the shield of Aeneas, which show very clearly how Virgil imitates Homer. Firstly, it is necessary to retain one fundamental idea: when Virgil composes the Aeneid, epic is Homer and, with the passage of time, the author of the Iliad would become the personification of Greek culture. In other words, the epic genre already had a model of prestige and imitation, on which had been imposed a “nationalistic” or “political” reading totally foreign to its genesis, even given the little we know for certain on the subject. That is to say, Virgil did not just have Homer’s poems. Homer, as a privileged scholarly text, had attracted the interest of scholars, critics and grammarians, which would generate an enormous body of information about his work. One of the schools that would most influence the reception of Homer was the Pergamum school, whose main contribution was the diffusion of an allegorical reading of the Homeric epic. Crates of Mallus, one of its main figures, focused specifically on the descriptions of the shields of Agamemnon and Achilles, to which he attributed a cosmological meaning. In particular, the shield of Achilles, with its vision of spheres, of the ocean, and with its urban and rural scenes, was a perfect representation of the universe, a reading also ratified by its circularity. In the light of these few facts, the Virgilian rewriting of the shield of Achilles takes on a much deeper meaning, and we can see that we are not only reading an imitation of Homer’s passage but also a purposeful writing that cannot be understood if we do not take into account the various forms of mediation of Homer’s text. Virgil does not simply rewrite Homer: his text is also built on the allegorical reading of the shield of Achilles and on a tradition that dictates that the Greek poet is the canonical model of a genre to which was also attributed a nationalistic sense. The Aeneid, obviously, responds to all of these principles and is based on them. The passage of the shield is a paradigmatic example which allows us to see how Virgil goes one step further than his model, thanks, precisely, to the assistance and the knowledge of the exegetic apparatus of the corpus Homericum: the shield of Aeneas is, like that of Achilles, a metaphor of the cosmos. But it is also more, because the images chiseled on one and the other are of a very different nature. Why did Virgil decided to inscribe onto the shield various episodes of the history of Rome instead of much more “universal” scenes like those of Homer? What reasons dictated this distancing from the model? Unlike the Iliad, whose nationalistic reading came much later, we know that Virgil’s intention was to write a patriotic poem. The Aeneid is the poem of Rome and of Augustus, and it is devoted to write the history of the birth of the nation risen from the ashes of Troy and chosen to rule the world. The passage of the shield, in some way, can be considered a synecdoche of the whole of the poem (in the sense expressed by Farrell 2000), because, if we take into account the

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cosmogonical reading of the shield of Achilles, on which Virgil unequivocally based his imitation, we can conclude that, in fact, the shield of Aeneas is a representation of the universe, but—if we judge by its content—of a Roman universe. The shield, thus, is not just a symbol of the world: Rome, thanks to Augustus, is the world.

The Virgilian epic tradition As we have seen, the comparative study of these two passages shows that imitation is an act of writing in which various factors play a role, and that the configuration of a text as canonical model depends on its use and interpretation, so that rewritings can only be explained by mediation. The case of Virgil and the Aeneid is especially interesting, because it replaced its Greek model as the canonical source and because the poem shaped the Western epic tradition. Like the case of Homer, the corpus Virgilianum would become the object of an extraordinary exegetic interest, which would greatly contribute to the establishment of what Thomas Greene (1963) calls “epic continuity.” Although Greene is referring specifically to a formal continuity, it is obvious that the continuity is essentially ideological, and it was extended and mediated by the exegetic and theoretical texts about the Aeneid. In great measure, the ancient and modern exegetes were responsible for spinning an intricate web around Virgil that imposed its reception and converted it into the epic poem par excellence. It should be noticed that Virgil’s poems were edited accompanied by the commentaries of various authors who offered grammatical, rhetorical, or historical readings of the texts. Also, such editions also contained vitae of the poet, which in many cases promoted biographical or literal readings (see Comparetti 1943). Some editions, particularly since the sixteenth century, offered also visual mediations, as is the case with the illustrated Virgils. Especially noteworthy are the engravings done by humanist and editor Sebastian Brant for Johann Grüninger’s 1502 edition, which enjoyed an unprecedented importance and influence. Brant’s engravings are one more of the many layers that determined the reception of Virgil’s work and which, in short, defined the imitation of the Latin poet. In the case of Grüninger’s Virgil, then, we see how the mediation becomes complex: first, it offers an imposing textual apparatus (praenotamenta and commentaries) addressed to a more learned public; at the same time, it contains an iconographic corpus supposedly, according to the humanist, destined for the indocti, who were incapable of following the classical, rhetorical, and grammatical annotations contained in the commentaries, and whose reading could be completed by a visual explanation (although Brant’s visual commentary was inseparable from Servius’s grammatical commentary, and thus, was not only meant for the indocti; see Leach 1982 and Patterson 1987). The treatment given to Virgil’s poem in Roman times and through the Middle Ages multiplied many times the attention paid to Homer in Antiquity. Particularly interesting is the relationship that critical tradition would establish between epic and history, stemming from Servius’s reading (ca. IV-V CE), because that relationship determined the configuration of the panegyric and political interpretation of the whole genre. Servius’s is, broadly speaking, a historical reading: he turns Roman history, in particular Livy’s text, into the key element of his commentary. That is to say, he makes the historical text a critical text and focuses his interpretation on the intentio auctoris, and he understands, as explained in the accessus, that Virgil fundamentally wished to

Shields in Iberian epics311 imitate Homer and praise Augustus: “Intentio Vergilii haec est Homerum imitari & Augustum laudare a parentibus” (quoted in Thilo 1961, 4). Thus, the shield of Aeneas, Servius maintains, has a very clear purpose: to celebrate the glory of Augustus, the reason for which Virgil gives him a privileged place in the ekphrasis: “itaque maiorem partem operis in hoc clipeo Augusto adsignat” (quoted in Thilo 1961, 297). This relationship between epic and history is fundamental to understand the epic poetry of the sixteenth century. The updating of the classical legacy, as we can see, implies very diverse mediations and, in this case, the imitation of Virgil is based in a complex construction of the iconography for the Spanish monarchs, which undoubtedly comes from the myth of the Roman Empire. The Spanish Renaissance epic, in short, would rewrite Virgil’s Aeneid and would adapt its political reading to praise the new masters of the world, Charles V and Philip II. We can see some clear examples of this idea in the imitations of the description of the shield of Aeneas in some poems. The following case study will clearly illustrate the concept of imitation at work here.

The description of the arms of Charles V in Carlo Famoso The first example, chronologically speaking, comes from Luis Zapata’s Carlo Famoso, a lengthy epic poem published in Valencia in 1566. In fifty long cantos, the work recounts the life of the emperor Charles V, from his arrival in Spain in 1519 to his abdication, seclusion, and death in Yuste in 1558. Zapata’s poem, as the reader can guess, is of an obvious historical nature, although an attentive examination shows us that its main model is Virgil’s Aeneid. Charles V is clearly styled after Aeneas, and so is the narration: the historical facts lend themselves to a division into two very distinct parts, the first focusing on the voyages that led a young Charles to Spain (including a romantic episode, this time in England) and the second focusing clearly on military aspects, emulating books 7–12 of Virgil’s poem. Another characteristic that illustrates this imitation of the Latin model is the presence of prophecies, passages that, as we have seen, permitted the Mantuan poet to jump ahead to the future, to the time of Augustus, and to round off the ideological reading of the poem. Significantly, amongst the many prophecies contained in the Carlo Famoso, one of them is the ekphrasis of a shield and armor, manufactured by a certain Colmán, who, like Virgil’s Vulcan, has the gift of prophecy (see books 34 and 35). Charles contemplates the images that Colmán has engraved on the shield and which correspond to the future acts of Philip II, although he cannot attribute concrete meaning to them. This shows that, once more, the description is fundamentally addressed to the readers rather than to the hero. Thus, the ekphrasis begins with Philip’s childhood and youth, whose genius and prowess in war promise that he will fill the whole world with hope. The heir is presented as the perfect prince, gifted in arms and in arts. His wedding to Maria of Portugal and the birth of the unfortunate Don Carlos are also recounted, as well as his voyages in Northern lands and his second marriage to Mary Tudor, a story which ends with the abdication of the emperor and his ascension to the throne of Spain. Then are told various military victories over the most tenacious of his father’s enemies, France. Concretely, the battle of Saint-Quentin and the victory won at Gravelines. After these two triumphs, Spain and France seal the peace with the marriage of Philip and Elizabeth of Valois, which allows the monarch to direct his attention toward a heathen

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enemy: thus, we see him persecuting French Lutherans, Moriscos, and Arabs, upon whom he imposes himself soundly in the Vélez de la Gomera campaigns and who, like the Egyptians on Aeneas’s shield, flee in terror. Lastly, the ekphrasis closes with a vision of Philip’s final (to date) campaign (the defense of the island of Malta, to which Zapata attributes a universal meaning identical to that which Virgil had given to the battle of Actium) and with the apotheosis-like image of the sovereign, surrounded by the spoils of victory. The emperor joyfully contemplates the images without understanding their whole meaning, asking himself whether the triumphant one he sees is his son. The description of the arms of Charles V, like that of the shield of Aeneas, precedes and announces the victory of the hero in the upcoming battle, hence the two ekphrases close with the apotheosis of the victor. Just as the action of Carlo Famoso has focused first on narrating the struggles against France and then on those that Charles V faced against Islam, the description of the images engraved on Charles’s arms respect the historical chronology. But this order has only meaning for a contemporary reader. Zapata, like Virgil, manipulates the time of the narration and of the story in order to establish a link and a continuity between father and son (with much the same meaning as Virgil would give to the continuity between Julius Caesar and Augustus), and on this he bases his praise of Philip: the prince’s exploits, thus, are an imitation and a superseding of his father’s acts, in the same way that Augustus’s were of Aeneas’s and Julius Caesar’s. In prophetic moments, the present of the poet is integrated with the action of the narrative and takes on a providential and mythic character. Nonetheless, the author does not limit himself to comparing the paths of the father and of the son, but rather, he also exploits the continuity that is established between the past history of Spain and its most illustrious figures, to whom he refers at various points in the text. Thus, Zapata, like Virgil, writes the history of Spain and of its progress from the perspective of the victors, with an eye always on the present, which, thanks to prophecy, promises to be a resplendent future and the culmination of all previous achievements.

The shields of John of Austria in the Felicísima victoria The previous example illustrates clearly the complexity of the idea of literary imitation. The case we will examine next goes a little further: if in the Carlo Famoso we saw a rewriting of the ekphrasis of the shield of Aeneas that basically consisted of the adaptation of the prophetic and descriptive framework to a review of the contemporary heroic deeds of Philip II, the case of the poem by the Portuguese Jerónimo Corte-Real is somewhat more complex. The work to which I refer by its abbreviated title, Felicísima victoria, is one of the few devoted completely to poeticizing one of the most famous exploits of the century: the battle of Lepanto (1571). As the reader can appreciate, we are dealing again with an historical poem, which will also treat its material in a style after the literary and ideological model of Virgil’s Aeneid, and rather more successfully than in the case of Zapata’s work. In the hands of Corte-Real and other contemporary epic poets (as we can see in the case of La Araucana, to which I will refer below), Lepanto took on a mythical significance whose construction followed from Virgil’s vision of Actium: thanks to this purposeful and politicized rewriting of the passage on the shield of Aeneas, Lepanto will not only be established as an unparalleled victory, but rather as the victory of the West over the East, of the true religion over paganism, and, on top of it all, as the triumph that would give world

Shields in Iberian epics313 domination to the Spanish crown. This, broadly speaking, is the reading that we can make of the poem (Vilà 2004 & 2005) and, in particular, of the ekphrasis not of one but of two shields that appear in it (see books 4 and 6). The first of them appears in the context of a prophetic dream: Ali Pasha, general of the Ottoman fleet, visits the temple of Mars in a dream. There, once the spectre of the deceased sultan Selim I has announced the defeat, and after contemplating the rich decoration on the doors of the temple, he sees a high altar dominated by the enormous figure of the god, at whose feet rest the trophies and spoils of memorable battles. At his side are the statues of various illustrious men of war, amongst whom Ali Pasha recognizes Greek, Trojan, Roman, and Gallic warriors, a list that ends with the sight of some contemporary Portuguese and Spanish heroes. The order given to the vision of these figures expresses emphatically, in a symbolic way, the idea of the translation of imperial power, which, in turn, allows us to affirm that the prophetic ekphrasis of the temple of Mars is constructed on Virgil’s model, and, especially, on the hereditary idea of universal rule, as Jupiter expresses in book I of the Aeneid: “imperium sine fine dedi” (Aen. 1.279; “dominion without end have I bestowed;” Virgil 1964–69, 1:261). The reading leaves no room for doubt: it is Spain’s turn to be the new ruler of the world, the heir to the universal power of so many previous empires. But the ideological interpretation of the passage does not end here. Corte-Real goes through a long catalogue of heroes, which closes with the vision of the statue of a handsome youth worthy of standing next to that of the very god Mars, and to whom the god, says the poet, shows more esteem than to any other. It is, obviously, John of Austria, general of the victorious Christian fleet and son of Charles V. Amongst the rich ornaments that adorn his figure is a shield decorated with diamonds and rubies and on which Ali gazes at a depiction of the future battle of Lepanto. The battle, like the battle of Actium, occupies the center of the shield; the sea is red with blood (an image, of course, that Virgil used and that would be repeated invariably in all the poetic descriptions of Lepanto) and covered with countless bodies. The next image is, however, much more symbolic: a “royal” eagle rises to the sky carrying a crown of interwoven laurel and palms. More than in any other place in the poem, it is here that Corte-Real expresses the link between Actium and Lepanto. This first shield not only announces the final ending of the poetic narration itself, but also, if we read it together with the preceding catalogue of heroes, it functions as an image of universal Hispanic power, a reading promoted especially by the figure of the eagle, an imperial symbol that inevitably alludes to the father figure and his authority. This imperial and universal reading of Lepanto, constructed upon Virgil’s vision of Actium, is completed by the ekphrasis of a second shield, a gift from Venus to John of Austria as a token of her appreciation for being the defender of her island. To this end, she, like Virgil’s Venus, will ask her husband Vulcan, master of the forge, to manufacture a powerful suit of armor that will protect him and help him undertake the victory that providence, says the goddess, has reserved for him. Amongst the pieces that make up the armor of John of Austria there is a shield that the god himself has chiseled with the heroic deeds of Charles V and Philip II, that is to say, with the most recent and glorious history of Spain. Thus, the first part of the ekphrasis summarizes the emperor’s most important exploits: the first images deal with the various campaigns against France, which culminate in the triumph at Pavia and the capture of Francis I. After mentioning a few other skirmishes, the description focuses on the victories over the Turks (and on the disaster at Algiers) and, finally, shows that of the emperor at Mühlberg over the Protestant princes of

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the Schmalkaldic League. Next, it relates Philip’s exploits, which occupy the upper part of the shield: there we can see, in a tremendous initial view, a resplendent Philip receiving homage from the Native Americans. Then it describes the monarch’s victory at Saint-Quentin, who, like Virgil’s Augustus, appears to have the glory of his father, which sanctions the transfer of paternal imperial authority. It is clear, thus, that Corte-Real makes Philip a second Augustus. After the victory at Saint-Quentin, Vulcan has engraved many other victorious ventures against the pagans, inside and outside of the Peninsula, a review that concludes with the triumphant vision of John of Austria after the success of his campaign against the Moriscos of Granada, a victory that, undoubtedly, preceded that of Lepanto. It is not necessary, therefore, that this last be on the shield: the fact that all these victories are contained on a shield, to which the epic tradition attributes a prophetic reading, allows us to see an unspoken allusion to the victory at Lepanto. Just like in the description of the shield in Virgil, here the chronology of the recounted events is in ascending order, which means that the victory at Lepanto, like Actium, should be considered a climax that closes one era and opens a new, potentially glorious one, that corresponds to the present. Progress, like in Virgil’s poem, is shown as a succession of cycles of war that culminate in the triumph at Lepanto, which is the one that will give Spain (and the West) dominion over the other half of the world.

The prophetic sphere of La Araucana The same ideological and imperial reading should be applied to the next of the selected passages: the prophetic vision of Lepanto that takes place in books 23 and 24 of Alonso de Ercilla’s La Araucana, whose second part, like Corte-Real’s poem, dates from 1578. If in the previous case the Portuguese poet not only imitated but also amplified the model of Virgil’s shield, the case of Ercilla shows even greater elaboration. In this case, we do not see, like in the others, the ekphrasis of a shield, but rather, the shield, product of the assimilation of other contemporary epic models also written in imitation of the Aeneid, becomes a magic sphere that allows the narrator of the poem, an alter ego of the author, to contemplate the very battle unfolding before his eyes. To this end, Ercilla uses not only Virgil’s passage about the shield but also another Latin source, the necromancy episode from book 6 of Lucan’s Pharsalia, to write the episode of the wizard Fitón which precedes the vision of Lepanto. Fitón is shown as the opposite reflection of the terrible witch Erichto, while at the same time is modeled after the wise and venerable magicians that fill the pages of another of the great epic models of the sixteenth century: Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso. Hence, as we see, Ercilla rewrites more than one model, although all, in their way, reflect the imitation of Virgil. The presentation of the character of Fitón shows this to be true: amongst his powers are several that are attributed to Lucan’s Erichto, such as his power over the inhabitants of Avernus, although his magic is defined as a “saber puro” (La Araucana 23.1). Undoubtedly, in order to use the passage from Pharsalia (which precedes the announcement of Pompey’s defeat at the hands of Julius Caesar), Ercilla eliminates all of the negative aspects present in Lucan’s Erichto episode so that Fitón can elucidate glorious deeds. Once the wizard and his dwelling are presented, Fitón leads the narrator to a large room where, suspended in the air, he finds an enormous sphere in which some ships and human figures can be distinguished. The

Shields in Iberian epics315 sphere, says the sorcerer, is a small replica of the world, “del mundo el gran término abreviado” (La Araucana 23.70.4), and its construction is the fruit of forty years of study. Ercilla is not the first to use the technique of a sphere of prophecy: Luís de Camões used an identical object for one of the predictions of his celebrated Os Lusíadas, the sixteenth-century Portuguese Aeneid that salutes Portugal as heir to the Roman Empire. In this prophecy, Thetis predicts its glorious future with the help of a sphere that, like Ercilla’s, is “trasunto reduzido ... do mondo” (Camões 10.79.6–7), and in which Vasco da Gama can contemplate the dominion over the world by these new Argonauts. The sphere, obviously, recaptures the model of Aeneas’s shield, and here again its circularity favours a universal reading. Like the shield and like Thetis’s sphere, that of Fitón, because of its circularity and because the acknowledgement that it is a reduced copy of the world, gives a universal character to the battle of Lepanto. On this Christian victory, as will be repeated later, will rest the fate of the world. But for the narrator of La Araucana to be able to look on the battle, it is necessary for the figures in the sphere to come alive. Fitón, therefore, invokes the inhabitants of the Otherworld. Like Lucan’s Erichto, the lack of response leads him to threaten them with bringing light to the dark kingdom. It is then that a breeze slowly breathes life into the sails and the human figures begin to move. In contrast to the strange katabasis recounted in book 6 of the Pharsalia, the magician will not resuscitate a corpse, a tactic doubtless too gruesome for a venerable figure like Fitón, so different and yet so similar to the witch of Thessaly. Hence, there can be no doubt about the veracity of the events told: the poetic soldier named Ercilla will receive the prophecy, like Aeneas, but unlike him, he will also be the narrator of the poem and the interpreter of the prediction. Thus, there can be no misinterpretations. Since we assume that Lepanto has not yet happened, Ercilla must properly justify the identity of the characters who appear next: to the claim that he himself had known some of the participants of the battle in his younger years, he says that in case they have changed much, the figures can be identified in the sphere through philacteries. The description of the battle of book 24, therefore, is truthful. I will not spend too long on the description. Suffice it to say that Ercilla follows contemporary historical sources, and that the chronological development of the described events is practically the same as in the works of the other epic poets who sing of Lepanto. What distinguishes the various poetic narrations of the battle is precisely the different way that each poet treats this historical material according to the dictates of tradition and the way each follows the Virgilian model. In the case of Ercilla, as we have already seen, this imitation is quite complex, especially as regards the framework of the prophecy. Throughout the description we can see Virgilian echoes here and there that round out and close the imperial reading of the battle: in contrast to the unified Christians captained by John of Austria, right arm of his brother Philip, the pagans are a motley crew much like the ops barbarica of Mark Anthony’s Oriental army (Aen. 8.685); the philactery that identifies John of Austria (La Araucana 24.8.8) acts as Virgil’s sidus Iulium (Aen. 8.680), not only highlighting the youth among the other participants, by virtue of being written in golden letters, but also purposefully linking him to Charles V in a clear call out to the universal paternal authority. John of Austria’s impassioned speech to his soldiers, moments before the battle, reflects the universalist and “nationalist” significance given to Lepanto and establishes a clear link to a religion seen as the only legitimate choice, at the same time echoing the speech that Anchises makes to the future Romans in book 6 of the Aeneid on the subject of the rights

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of the victors to spread their power over the defeated and to assimilate them. In short, Ercilla recontextualizes the Virgilian idea of dominium mundi by identifying the Spanish national cause with the universal cause of the Roman Empire. As we can see, the imperial reading Ercilla gives to Lepanto is based on the imitation of diverse epic sources, all of which depend on Virgil’s Aeneid. Ercilla, like Corte-Real, would make Lepanto into a second Actium (an aspect on which the proximity of both geographical locations would have some bearing, as Ercilla explains in 23.67). Virgil’s description of Actium as a battle between East and West, between false and true religion, and the view that this was a just war on whose outcome would depend the fate of the world, would become part of the symbolic and propagandistic apparatus of the battle of Lepanto. Nonetheless, Ercilla’s passage is also a clear example of how such a reading of an armed conflict can be articulated in a way that is both original and respectful of tradition.

The shield of Charlemagne in the Lira heroica The case of the Neo-Latin poem Lyrae heroicae libri quatuordecim, written by Toledan poet Francisco Núñez de Oria and published in Salamanca in 1581, is a somewhat different story. Unlike the three previous poems it does not attempt a review of one or more historical events, but rather, it deals with totally fictional material and contemporary history mainly appears in the poem through the prophetic passages. The poem presents itself as an alternative writing of Orlando Furioso, although its author develops a patriotic revision of the Italian model that obviously corresponds to the influence of Virgil’s Aeneid. Thus, Núñez de Oria ideologically adapts Orlando so that it can serve to praise Charles V and Philip II through Charlemagne, as he himself explains in a prologue dedicated to García Hurtado de Mendoza, when he affirms that the entire poem has been written “ad Maronem imitationem” (fol. 4r). This shows that the poem is not only a rewriting of Ariosto, but, on top of that, a rewriting guided ideologically and formally by the imitation of the Aeneid. Thus, the heroic deeds described in it are, like the tale of Aeneas’s wanderings and wars, a pretext to artificially sing the praises of Charles V and Philip II, as Virgil did with Augustus. One of the moments when we can most easily see this highly political reading of the text is during the prophetic ekphrasis of a shield. In this case, it is Charlemagne’s and its description occurs, as in the previous examples, in the context of war: the defense of Paris under the assault of the Turks. The two armies are facing off at Arles, and noteworthy amongst the heroes that make up the ranks of those who are about to enter into battle is the powerful figure of Charlemagne, who in one hand holds the shield that Merlin made for King Arthur and on which the famous magician chiseled the future of the empire. However, Núñez de Oria’s ekphrasis, unlike the previous ones, is much more symbolic: it offers a catalogue of kings, so history is therefore mediated by the presence of royal figures. The symbolism that comes from the circularity of the shield closes with the enumeration of these monarchs, amongst whom, obviously, Charles V stands out. The ekphrasis, though brief, is a code for the imperial reading attributed to the object, symbol of a Christian empire that spreads over the entire world. Also, if we consider the explicit presence of the model we can see that the shield of Charlemagne is not only an image of the world

Shields in Iberian epics317 but also of the translation of universal power from one nation to another. A translatio imperii emphasized, on the other hand, by the fact that the shield chiseled for Arthur is now in the hands of Charlemagne, first Holy Roman Emperor, and by the fact that in it he can look on his future heir, the emperor Charles V, and on his descendent. Thus, when reading this shield, we have no choice but to remember Aeneas’s, because only then can we understand the way in which it embodies the transfer of the imperium sine fine from Rome to Spain, through the Christian heritage of Charlemagne. That the shield is a symbol of the empire is clear from the first verses of the ekphrasis, where it is stated that the image of the great empire of the future (“effigies futuri Imperii magni,” 8.686–87) is represented in the center; an image which is none other than that of Charles V, represented as the victor of Suleiman the Magnificent. Although Núñez de Oria confines himself to turning the ekphrasis into a catalogue of heroes, it is significant that the vision of Charles as victor occupies the center of the shield, the same spot that the battle of Actium and the apotheosis of Augustus occupied on Aeneas’s, a fact which allows us to establish an even stronger parallel between the figures of the two chiefs. On the other hand, it is important to note that the prophecy is not addressed to a character in the story but rather to the reader, an obviously educated reader and who no doubt would be familiar with the model. Suleiman, like Cleopatra in Virgil’s version, appears as a symbol of Eastern paganism conquered by the West and by Christianity. It is not necessary, therefore, to refer at length to a battle; rather, it is enough to present the exalted image of the emperor for the reader to construct the political and symbolic reading of the passage. The same applies to the case of presenting an obviously Spanish vision of the universal empire. Next to the central figure of Emperor, Merlin has pictured two of his future heirs, his son Philip and his grandson Charles. This fact, as well as the marginal place given to Charlemagne’s Frankish heirs (the accidental death of one of whom, in fact, closes the ekphrasis) and to the other members of the Austrian line, indicates that the future of the empire is in Spain, the nation destined to become ruler of the world. Through this oblique and slanted view of the future heroes of the empire, Núñez de Oria establishes that the empire of Charles V and, by extension, the Hispanic empire, is the most direct descendent of the Carolingian empire (a link that the iconographical propaganda of Charles would exploit) and, especially, of the Roman empire. Indeed Charlemagne was the first Western Roman Emperor to take possession of the Roman heritage thanks to a symbolic appropriation that would allow its adaptation to Christianity (for the continuity of the imperial image, see Yates 1975 and Tanner 1993). The Toledan poet, thus, expresses on the shield the idea of the translatio of imperial power from Rome to Spain, and he also emphasizes the continuity sanctioned by Virgil’s “imperium sine fine.” The reading of Charlemagne’s shield cannot be understood unless we remember the model of Aeneas’s shield, as it is there that the universal ambition for political power is encoded, powerfully and symbolically, like in no other prophecy in the Aeneid. The shield of the Lyrae heroicae libri is, no doubt, the expression of the heritage of Augustus to Charles V and his Spanish descendents. As the reader has seen in the preceding pages, the shields in Iberian epics basically trace a line of continuity between the history of Rome and that of Spain, picking up the story from where it was left off at Aeneas’s shield. The texts studied are very clear examples of the way that imitation occurs without being either mechanical or repetitive. On the contrary, the poets work

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in complex ways, adapt other texts and contemporary models, draw links to a tradition of reading and interpretation, but also draw cultural and symbolic links to their own moment in history, which allows us to suggest a multidisciplinary concept of imitation. In short, we can no longer speak of the influence of A on B, nor of the imitation of A by B, because, as the examples studied show, imitation does not occur univocally nor unidirectionally, but rather, through complex and purposeful rewritings.

Translation and cultural mediation in the fifteenth-century Hispanic kingdoms The case of the Catalan-speaking lands Josep Pujol In the dedication of his novel Tirant lo Blanc (1460–64, princeps 1490), Joanot Martorell used the hundred-year-old cliché that identifies the author of a work as the translator of a pre-existing text. Martorell claimed that this original text was written in English, and that he translated it first from English to Portuguese (out of regard for the Infante Ferdinand of Portugal, to whom the work is dedicated) and then later from Portuguese to Catalan (out of regard for the readers of his nation). He immediately added that if the reader were to find fault with his work, the defects were surely due to the difficulty of translating accurately the meaning of the supposed English expressions (Martorell 2004, 61–66). The author, therefore, did not limit himself to reproducing a cliché of the chivalresque literature of the Middle Ages. He also adapted it to the conventions regarding prologues of translations in his time period, with their usual captatio benevolentiae based on the difficulties of getting around the differences between Latin and Romance languages. By doing this, he portrayed himself and established his authority not as a writer of works of fiction, but rather, as a cultural mediator who, through translation, transmitted historical knowledge — chivalresque, heroic, and moral — to his readers, just like Antoni Canals in his Escipió e Anníbal (Scipio and Hannibal) or Pero López de Ayala in his translation of Livy, to cite two conspicuous Hispanic translators from the turn of the fifteenth century (Pujol 2002a, 19–36). The knowledge that Martorell was in fact adapting the dedication of Enrique de Villena’s Los dotze treballs d’Hèrcules (Hercules’s twelve labors), a mythographic work that was composed through compilatio based on literary and scholarly sources, also tells us that through the text, he was appropriating a pre-existing model for the portrayal of the author as mediator (Cátedra 1993). This model makes itself visible also in the prologues and the dedicatory epistles of translations of classical and medieval histories, such as Jaume Conesa’s version of Guido delle Colonne’s Historia destructionis Troiae (1367–74; History of the destruction of Troy), Antoni Canals’s version of Valerius Maximus (1395) or Pedro López de Ayala’s aforementioned Castilian version of Livy’s Decades (1395–1406). And there is no doubt that Martorell, who knew Conesa’s and Canals’s versions, was also influenced by his own knowledge and use of these and other Catalan translations of classical and medieval works. Thus, he knew firsthand the mediating power of such translations (Pujol 2002a, 22–26). That translation is mediation is nothing new; on the contrary, the idea runs through the prologues of medieval translators from the twelfth century on. We might recall, as a representative example, the opening verses of the romans of Troy and of Aeneas, in which both authors justify themselves with the Biblical obligation of not hiding wisdom (Eccl 20.32 & 41.17). In the middle of the fifteenth century, a Catalan translator who admired Italian humanism, Ferran Valentí, converted this idea into the structuring principle of the prologue to his translation of Cicero’s Paradoxes. For Valentí, all cultured literature in Romance languages is a translation, or, doi 10.1075/chlel.29.27puj © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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to use a different term, a mediation, a transfer of academic knowledge to a vernacular audience. For this reason, Valentí praises both writers and translators, and therefore, Jerome, Boethius, and Leonardo Bruni can rub shoulders with Ramon Llull, Bernat Metge, Dante, Boccaccio, and Petrarch (Valentí 1959, 35–43; Badia 1994). Some of these names did indeed mediate classical knowledge to Joanot Martorell: to take an obvious example, Petrarch’s Epistolae familiares XII.2 (Familiar letters) was for him a compendium of ancient authorities de regimine principum and the fourth book of Metge’s Lo somni (The dream), a Petrarchian- and Boccaccian-like catalog of famous women of Antiquity. But let us return to the topos of translation. Martorell claims to be translating from English to Portuguese, and from Portuguese to Catalan. We might think that this type of process is an invention and that it has no basis in reality. It is indeed true that there is no original English Tirant, nor, obviously, a Portuguese Tirant (although, in fairness to the verisimilitude of Martorell’s fiction, there is an important English source for the first part of the novel; see Riquer 1990, 257–71 and Cabré 2007, 39–40). However, there exists at least one real example of the fictional process described by Martorell: in the fifteenth century, John Gower’s Confessio amantis (The lover’s confession) was translated from English to Portuguese and then from Portuguese to Castilian (Cortijo 1995). Martorell, thus, was reproducing a plausible process of mediation of a non-Iberian text through translation between Iberian languages. Considering now original works, that is exactly what Peter, Constable of Portugal, did when, forced into exile in Castile (1449–54), he prepared a Castilian version of his originally Portuguese Sátira de felice e infelice vida (Pedro de Portugal 2008; Satire of happy and unhappy life). His case is, in short, perfectly homologous to that of the text from which Martorell copied the dedication to Infante Ferdinand of Portugal: Enrique de Villena’s Los dotze treballs d’Hèrcules, written in Catalan in 1417 and rewritten in Castilian around 1421, when the author took up permanent residence in Castile (Cátedra 1991 & 1993). The first important observation is, thus, the existence of the phenomenon of translation — sometimes of self-translation — between the languages of the Peninsula. Several Castilian wisdom compendia and legal texts were translated into Catalan early in the fourteenth century, during the reign of James II of Aragon. Conversely, in the fifteenth century there is a new phenomenon, not sufficiently studied and barely recognized in the literature on medieval Hispanic translations (Russell [1985] does not mention it, while the recent overview by Santoyo [2004] alludes to concrete texts without treating this as a cultural phenomenon). I am referring to the translation into Castilian of Catalan translations of Latin texts (which sometimes arrived in Catalan through other intermediary Romance-language versions, usually French) and even of some Romance-language texts. A systematic inventory of all these cases has not yet been produced. The first provisional list was developed by Martín de Riquer (1964, 2:467), and Jaume Riera i Sans (1989) added to it in a more recent work which, despite a few gaps left to fill, now stands as the most complete catalog of Catalan texts translated to Castilian. Its data have served as a basis for Charles Faulhaber’s (1997) work of systematizing in figures the intra-Peninsular relationships regarding these translations. According to his calculations, a total of thirty-one indirect translations to Castilian were done based on Catalan intermediaries; of these, we can say with certainty that twenty-six transmit texts that were originally in Latin. This is not the appropriate place to take a census and to discuss the uncertain or problematic cases (For an overview of medieval Catalan translations, see Cifuentes, Pujol & Ferrer 2014; literary translations are catalogued and discussed in the Translat Census and Database: .). If

Translation and cultural mediation in the fifteenth-century Hispanic kingdoms321 we took a sample of just classical and patristic literature (excluding, therefore, scientific and doctrinal texts), it would consist mainly of the following Catalan translations, the majority of which date from before 1400, which were translated to Castilian: Augustine, De civitate Dei (The city of god) with commentary by Thomas Waleys (books I-X), anonymous Catalan translation from the end of the fourteenth century (Wittlin 1978); Boethius, De consolatione Philosophiae (Consolation of philosophy) with commentary by William of Aragon, version by Pere Saplana (ca. 1360) and later adaptation by Antoni Ginebreda (ca. 1390; Riera i Sans 1984; Keightley 1987; Briesemeister 1990; Ziino 1998); Cicero, Paradoxa stoicorum (Stoic paradoxes), anonymous Catalan translation from the fifteenth century (Badia 1993, 178–82); Ovid, Heroides (The heroines), Catalan translation by Guillem Nicolau (1390; Pujol 2005 and 2008); Seneca, Tragedies with commentary by Nicholas Trevet, anonymous Catalan translation from the end of the fourteenth century (Round 1974–79; Ciceri & Grespi 1996; Pujol 2002b); Seneca, Moral epistles, anonymous Catalan version (b. 1433; Zinato 1992 & 1994); Valerius Maximus, Facta et dicta memorabilia (Memorable deeds and sayings), Catalan version by Antoni Canals (1395; Avenoza 1994, 1998 & 2001). We could add to the list some important translations of Latin humanist works or of medieval works in other Romance languages, such as, for example, the anonymous versions of Petrarch’s Epistolae familiares XII.2 (Calvo Valdivieso 2007) or of Occitan poet Matfre Ermengaud’s Breviari d’amor (Breviary of love; Ricketts 1972), whereas we would have to exclude some versions which, although cited in the literature on the topic, are not Castilian but rather Aragonese (such is the case with Frontinus’s Strategemata — Stratagems — or Palladius’s De agricultura — On farming) and also some others about which we cannot state with certainty the direction of the translation. Some of the examples cited are especially complex or worthy of special mention. For example, the Catalan version of Augustine with commentary by Waleys is already a retranslation, since the translator started from Raoul de Presles’s French version. The case of Boethius is even more complex, because the Catalan text exists in two versions: Pere Saplana’s, who translated the Consolation while integrating William of Aragon’s commentary, and a later revision by Antoni Ginebreda, who took into account the widely published commentary of Nicholas Trevet. Both editions were translated into Castilian: Saplana’s is found in a 1436 manuscript written by Pedro of Valladolid, King John of Navarre’s scribe, while Ginebreda’s made it to the early Castlilian press in two independent versions (Riera 1984, Ziino 1998). In any case, there is more to this phenomenon than the particular details of these two translations and it cannot be understood without first taking a quick look at the historical and cultural context in which it is produced. The key is in the accession of the Trastámara dynasty, in the person of Ferdinand I, to the crown of the CatalanAragonese confederation in 1412, and in the strong intervention of the Aragonese Trastámaras in the political affairs of Castile; more specifically, the establishment of a party of the Infantes of Aragon crystallized around the figures of Alfonso V of Aragon and John of Navarre (also King of Aragon from 1458, upon the death of his brother Alfonso). We must not forget, first of all, the cultural exchanges to which the Trastámara court gave rise in Catalonia and Valencia. To give just two examples, Enrique de Villena, educated in the Catalan court, served as an intermediary between Ferdinand I and his new subjects, and eventually became a Castilian intellectual. And the magnate Íñigo López de Mendoza, Marquis of Santillana, was educated in the court of Alfonso V, the Magnanimous, and kept up-to-date with Catalan literary affairs for the rest of life, as his Prohemio (ca. 1449; Preface) attests (Cabré 1998). It is not surprising, therefore, that among the products of his cultural patronage should be translations of Latin works based on Catalan

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versions: such is the case, most probably, of the anonymous translation of Seneca’s Tragedies, which comes from the Catalan text and which, for lack of other evidence, has been identified as the translation that the Marquis, as he himself stated, commissioned, perhaps around 1436 (Round 1974–79). Also, the influence of the Aragonese Trastámaras’ political interests in Castile, and their direct control over the kingdoms of Aragon and Navarre, favored the circulation of books and people, even more strongly after King Alfonso settled in Naples and his brother John of Navarre became the king’s lieutenant-general. This context explains how as the fifteenth century advances, we find the first examples of Catalan writers who also write in Castilian, according to the court they are addressing. In some cases, this frequenting of courts of different languages leads to literary correspondence between Catalan and Castilian writers, like the letters exchanged between Pere Torroella and Pedro de Urrea, or between Charles, Prince of Viana and Joan Roís de Corella (Cabré 1997a & 1997b; Torró 2001). But perhaps most significant are the reciprocal literary influences on Peninsular literatures and what they imply as regards the task of translation. We must not forget, in that respect, that the literary production of the 1400s has a high proportion of rewriting of more or less prestigious sources and that, because the source was often in another language, the writer also becomes a translator. If the source is a translation from Latin to another Peninsular language which is not that of the writer in question, then we are dealing with a clear case of mediation. Castilian author Pedro del Corral, who wrote his Crónica del rey don Rodrigo (Chronicle of king Roderic), better known as Crónica sarracina (Saracen chronicle), in the 1430s, used fragments of Antoni Canals’s Escipió e Anibal and, in greater measure, long passages of the anonymous Catalan translation of Seneca’s Medea and Troades (Trojan women; Pujol 2002b). Most interesting is the fact that the author of a narrative that is so deeply Castilian and pro-Castile in its pseudo-historiographic approach should turn not to classical or classical-tending works, but rather, to the Catalan version of those texts. If he did so, it was because he had no other version. And if, on the one hand, this fact appears to prove that when he wrote the Crónica, no Castilian translation of the Tragedies yet existed, on the other hand, it is also irrefutable proof of the existence of a cultural and literary continuum, the result of the coexistence of Catalan, Aragonese, and Castilian writers in the Eastern Trastámara courts. The aforementioned knowledge of Catalan affairs that Santillana shows in his Prohemio — dedicated, incidentally, to Constable Peter of Portugal — is one more piece of this Peninsular mosaic. To cite Martorell yet again, we should also recall that the presence in Tirant lo Blanc of — for example — the pseudo-Ovidian epistles of Juan Rodríguez del Padrón (Riquer 1990, 187–89; Pujol 2002a, 138–41) can be better understood within the context in which the novel was devised: the Barcelonese court of Charles of Aragon, Prince of Viana, a learned prince acclaimed by the Catalans, whose language of expression (both personal and literary) was Castilian, who gathered in his court a group of Catalan and Castilian writers, and whose library was a compendium of Latin, French, Catalan, and Castilian culture (Torró 2001). On the other hand, in the case of Pedro del Corral, it is exactly the context that fails us: when and how the author could have become aware of the Catalan text of the Tragedies or of Canals’s Escipió. Unfortunately, this lack of historical data, due in large part to the anonymity of the translators, applies to the majority of the translations cited above, and thus, a precise contextualization is impossible for the moment. The main exceptions, Santillana aside, are the Castilian versions of Saplana’s Catalan Boethius, whose only preserved manuscript is dated 1436 and linked to the court of John of Navarre, and of Antoni Canals’s Catalan Valerius Maximus, a

Translation and cultural mediation in the fifteenth-century Hispanic kingdoms323 version written by Juan Alfonso de Zamora, court scribe of John I of Castile, between 1418 and 1419. This early translation, furthermore, is interesting for another reason: its request to Fernando Díez de Toledo, archdeacon of Niebla, that he revise and correct the version of the text, shows a real problem, rarely brought up among speakers of Romance languages — much less neighboring Romance languages: intra-Peninsular translations sometimes contain glaring errors, due to an imperfect comprehension of the original language (Avenoza 2001). Martorell may have been right when he complained about his difficulties in “turning a phrase.” This is not the place to discuss the literary use of translations, which Martorell and Pedro del Corral exemplify in their respective literary spheres. But it is the place to call attention to a phenomenon of mediation that often passes unnoticed in studies on medieval literature: the influence of one translation on another translation. The phenomenon is more or less obvious in some cases where two successive translations in the same language exist of the same text. The double Catalan version of Seneca’s Epistulae ad Lucilium (Letters to Lucilius) is a paradigmatic example: for the partial version dating from the mid-fifteentth century, based on the Latin text, that translator took into account a previous translation, derived from a French version from the fourteenth century (Martínez Romero 1998, 23–53; Sèneca 2015). In the Castilian tradition, the influence of some of the letters of Ovid’s Heroides which are included in Alfonso X’s General estoria (General history), on the translation we know as Bursario, commonly attributed to Juan Rodríguez del Padrón (Impey 1980; Rodríguez del Padrón 1984, 30–45) is well known. But until recently it was not known that the Bursario is also heavily influenced by the Castilian translation of the Heroides based on Guillem Nicolau’s Catalan text (Pujol 2009 & 2014), which presents us with a singular example of the continuity and interlinguistic cultural influence that includes multiple phenomena: (1) the “vertical” translation from Latin to Romance languages: Ovid’s text, with a lengthy scholarly commentary (already in some ways a “translation”), is translated to Catalan along with many margin glosses; (2) the “horizontal” translation between Romance languages: the Catalan version is translated in its entirety — ext and marginalia — to Castilian; and (3) the influence between translations: the author of the Bursario turns to the anonymous Castilian version to produce his own text (and in one case, even copies the letter that this version contains). Our knowledge of the influence that the Bursario had on Castilian literature of the fifteentth century will allow us to add a final phase to this journey. Although until now I have focused mainly on the literary relationships between Catalan and Castilian, we must not forget another linguistic tradition that, while minoritarian, is not negligible: the Aragonese tradition. It presents some details that distinguish it from the Castilian. While in the latter, the translations from Catalan to Castilian were produced in the fifteenth century in the context of Trastamaran political domination, the Aragonese versions of originally Catalan translations generally date from the second half of the fourteenth century and have as a central figure and as a center of production the patronage and the historiographical and encyclopedic compilations of Juan Fernández de Heredia, Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller. His close ties to the Catalan court of Peter IV of Aragon and his sons, the Infantes John and Martin, where books were circulated and where he could meet scribes and translators, explain the peculiar relationship between the texts of his Aragonese compilations and the Catalan versions that already existed, produced by commission or under the influence of the Grand Master. Although in some cases the Catalan source is lost, the catalanisms in the Aragonese text allow us to hypothesize the existence of Catalan originals (such is the case of a Catalan Valerius Maximus earlier than

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Canals’s, of John of Salisbury’s Policraticus, and of Livy’s third Decade; see Cacho 1997 & 2002). There are also Aragonese translations, or adaptations contained in compilations, of the Catalan versions of (at least) Hayton of Corycus, La Fleur des histoires de la terre d’Orient (History of the Tartars); Cicero, De officiis (On duties); Frontinus, Stratagemata; John of Wales, Communiloquium; John of Salisbury, Policraticus; Justin’s Epitome of the Historiae Philippicae (Philippic Histories) of Pompeius Trogus; Marco Polo, Le Devisement du monde (Travels); and Sallust, Bellum iugurthinum (Jugurthine war). It was, however, a passing phenomenon, which did not persist after the Grand Master and the Aragonese language’s subsequent loss of literary prestige. Above, I pointed out that in some cases, the Catalan versions were already retranslations. This implies that we must consider other forms of intermediation, that is to say, extra-Peninsular ones. We cannot forget that, before the accession of the Trastámaras to the crown of Aragon, Catalan literature was mostly influenced by Occitan and French. The former was the language of poetry during the twelfth century and it remained so, evolving progressively toward Catalan, until the 1420s. The latter was the language of the chivalresque novel, but also the language of John I’s two wives, especially the second, Yolande of Bar. His family ties with the kings of France and with the dukes of Bar are fundamental to our understanding of the expansion of French poetry and French translations of Latin classics and Church Fathers in the last two decades of the fourteenth century (Cabré & Ferrer 2012). Regarding Occitan, it is clear that, from a geographical standpoint, it is not an Iberian language. But literary history depends on political and cultural factors, and for three centuries, Catalonia was oriented toward Occitan (at least as far as lyric and narrative poetry are concerned), and this only changed during the reigns of Ferdinand I and Alfonso the Magnanimous, when Catalonia became part of the Trastamaran web on the Peninsula. Thus, in the thirteenth and fourteenth century, there was an Occitan mediation that passed to Catalan French and Latin texts. It is clear that recourse to Occitan versions of French texts like Laurent of Blois’s Somme le roi (Book of vices and virtues) or Honoré Bonet’s Arbre de batailles (Tree of battles) is simply a question of expediency, as we are operating within a cultural framework where Catalan and Occitan can be seen as pieces of the same cultural and linguistic continuum. Thus, translations from French have a different cultural significance. Some of them must be linked to the prestige gained by some French versions of Latin works. Augustine’s De civitate Dei and Livy’s Decades doubtless belong to this category. The first, by Raoul de Presles, had the added attraction of containing Thomas Waleys’s commentary at the end of each chapter. The second, by Benedictine scholar Pierre Bersuire, also contained Nicholas Trevet’s glosses, at a time when Livy, thanks in no small part to the influence of Petrarch, had become the principal historiographical reference for a European royalty eager for exempla and models for government. It is extremely significant that, at the same time that Pero López de Ayala, noble and historian, was translating Bersuire’s French Livy into Castilian, King John I of Aragon ordered a search for Latin, French, or Italian manuscripts of Livy. The anonymous Catalan translation of books 1–8 of the first Decade (the only extant Livy text in Catalan) derives from a French Livy that King John received from the Duke John of Berry in 1383 (Rico 2002; Ferrer 2010, 29–53, & 2012). But Livy is not an isolated case, because Vegetius’s De re militari (Concerning military matters; Badia 1983–84) and a first version of Seneca’s moral letters (Martínez Romero 1998, 23–53; Sèneca 2015), also came to Catalan mediated through French, and French mediation also gave Ramon de Perellós the version of the Tractatus de purgatorio sancti Patricii that he used for his description of Patrick’s Purgatory (Ainaud 1997).

Translation and cultural mediation in the fifteenth-century Hispanic kingdoms325 The texts by Augustine and Livy cited above, complete with commentary, remind us that mediation finds other instruments in the academic knowledge that is incorporated into a translated text. And in the same manner that some Romance-language texts emulate the scholarly technique of a glossed or commented text (it is sufficient to cite the somewhat pedantic examples of Boccaccio in the Teseida, of Juan de Mena in his Coronación and of Constable Peter of Portugal in his Sátira), the literary nature of translations of the classics cannot be understood properly without the more or less large-scale and systematic incorporation of glosses and commentaries which, on the one hand, give the texts an academic dimension or, at least, make the texts an instrument of popularization via the glosses, and, on the other hand, expand the text in various directions at once (rhetorical, scholarly, lexical, for example). Four Catalan-to-Castilian translations offer four very distinct examples of the use of commentary: Augustine, Boethius, the tragedies of Seneca and the letters of Ovid. Leaving aside the first, due to its systematic separation of text and commentary, Boethius and Seneca’s Tragedies (and, in lesser measure, the Heroides) present the particular phenomenon of commentary or glosses integrated into the translated text, which is thus expanded, resulting in the creation of new models of “modern” literary prose, imitable in literary creation, as occurs in the aforementioned case of Pedro del Corral and, especially, Joanot Martorell, for whom translations (Guido delle Colonne, John of Wales, Ovid, Seneca, Petrarch, Boccaccio) are an essential instrument — almost the essential instrument — of his writing. Another peculiar case is the treatment of the scholarly apparatus related to the Heroides in Guillem Nicolau’s translation: the translator was not satisfied with the mere integration of glosses into the text; rather, he added a significant body of marginal notes that, although lost in the Catalan manuscripts, is extant in its integrity in the sole manuscript of the anonymous Castilian translation of the fifteenth century (Pujol 2005 & 2011). In contrast to the situation described up to now, the reverse process, that is to say, translation from Castilian to Catalan, is a rather late phenomenon, dating from the time of early printing, and, with perhaps one exception, is a part of “commercial” operations. The case of Diego de San Pedro’s Cárcel de amor (The prison of love) is perhaps clearer, because the Catalan version, printed in 1493, attempts by all accounts to take advantage of the enormous success of the edition of the Castilian text — though we must underline the important fact that the text was reworked stylistically to suit dominant tastes in Catalan prose in the second half of the fifteenth century (Wittlin 1995, 157–79). The fact that the translator, Bernardí Vallmanya, was also responsible for some highly successful translations of religious texts from Castilian to Catalan indicates that these translations were a local phenomenon limited to one point in time (and in any case, unrelated to another notable translation of the second half of the century, that of Alfonso de la Torre’s Visión deleytable [The delightful vision], a translation doubtless motivated by a desire to appropriate his encyclopedic knowledge, and possibly carried out close by the court of Navarre [Torre 1991, Avenoza 1999]). The limited number of translations in this direction has various changing causes. The most obvious are the great volume of new publications that appeared in Catalonia starting in the mid-fourteenth century, and the intense translation work, which resulted in easy availability of originals, once the network of courtly relations was established on the Peninsula in the second decade of the fifteenth century. The demand is clearly in one direction. The education of many Catalan courtiers in Castilian courts (especially that of Navarre) and contact with Castilian writers created a reading public that could consume Castilian texts without the need for translation. The phenomenon only grew as time went on.

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But the translation of classics through Catalan translations also came to an end. Towards the middle of the fifteenth century, as the availability of Latin texts (or Italian versions of them) grew, the phenomenon of direct translation or the use of other types of intermediaries also grew. This also applied to Catalonia: as the new humanist culture gained ground, Italian, rather than French, became the mediating language of, for example, Leonardo Bruni’s De primo bello punico (On the first Punic war), translated by Francesc Alegre, Curtius’s Historiae Alexandri Magni (History of Alexander the Great), translated by Lluís de Fenollet, or the lost version of Giovanni del Virgilio’s commentary on Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Transformations), by Francesc de Pinós. In Castile, the example of Pier Candido Decembrio and Leonardo Bruni’s Latin Iliad, commissioned by the Marquis of Santillana, is highly significant of humanist Italy’s role in this new transmission of the classics (Serés 1997). The end date of this phenomenon is not, of course, totally strict, and some cases continued to trickle through. The phenomenon that did not end, with the advent of printing, was the translation of original Catalan texts into Castilian. We can leave aside texts of a moral and religious nature, headed by the works of Francesc Eiximenis, and also those of a historiographical nature, and focus on the reception of literary works. Of significant note in this process is the role played by the Castilian versions, in the sixteenth century, in preserving the memory of medieval works and authors that otherwise, due to the major political and cultural changes the Catalan territories were undergoing, might easily have been forgotten. I am basically referring to the translations of Joanot Martorell’s Tirant lo Blanc and of the poetry of Ausiàs March. March’s name runs through the sixteenth century, from Joan Boscà/Juan Boscán’s imitations and Baltasar de Romaní’s 1539 edition, with Castilian translation, to Vicent Mariner’s Latin translation at the beginning of the seventeenth century, not to forget Jorge de Montemayor’s important Castilian translation edited in 1560 (Riquer 1946). March was, therefore, edited, read, imitated and translated, and his name was associated with that of Boscán, Garcilaso, Herrera, Cetina, Francisco Sánchez de las Brozas, el Brocense, Montemayor, and Quevedo. March’s changing treatment at the hands of poets and translators shows not only a reception mediated and filtered by changing ideas of translation and imitatio, but also the reaction of the target language to March’s premodern style (Cabré 2002; Lloret 2013). In any case, through adaptation and translation, March became a classic of Castilian poetry. Translating, in this case, was synonymous with imitating, and its result was not diffusion but appropriation. The case of Tirant, with which I opened this overview, is completely different. Its final Catalan edition dates from 1497. All later editions until 1873 are translations. In contrast to being cut short in Catalan, in Italian and French its life was far from ephemeral (Martines 1997), and while its printing history in Castilian was brief (a single edition in Valladolid in 1511), its fame was not: firstly, because the moralists often included it in their lists of useless books, alongside all the Tristan-, Lancelot- and Amadis-like books; secondly, because the priest in Don Quixote (part I, chapter 6) saved it from the flames and praised it in a brief and famous piece of Renaissance literary criticism. With the suppression of the dedication in the Castilian translation, Joanot Martorell the “translator” disappeared from the Hispanic literary map. Not so his text — his “translation,” which for centuries enjoyed the renown bestowed upon it by Cervantes’s words.

Paratexts and mediation The case of Ausiàs March in the sixteenth century Cesc Esteve Over the course of the sixteenth century, the poetry of Ausiàs March (b. 1400 – d. 1459) was compiled and edited in Catalan and translated into Castilian multiple times. My aim in this chapter is to explain the reasons for such great and sustained interest in the author during that century. To do so, I will examine the form and function of the introductory texts — titles, dedications, prologues, biographies — that accompany the editions of March, in order to reconstruct the images of the poet and the reading and appreciation strategies that the editors, translators, and commentators of his work promote and utilize to mediate sixteenth-century readers’ access to March’s poetry. Given my interest in the functions and effects of introductory texts on the interpretation of March’s work, I will dispense with examining those (few) sixteenth-century editions and translations that are not useful in that regard. In return, this same priority obliges me to examine a sixteenth-century manuscript of March’s work that is particularly significant in the diffusion of the author’s biography and the seventeenth-century edition of Vicent Mariner’s Latin translation. Although they are dated, Amadeu Pagès’s (1912) and Martín de Riquer’s (1946) studies on the sixteenth-century manuscripts, editions, and translations of March’s work remain important: we must consult them both because each of them reproduces almost in their entirety the introductory texts of the sixteenth-century compilations. (For other, more recent studies on the editions of March and their reception in the sixteenth century see Molas 1978, Badia 1983, Fuster 1984, Rossich 1986, Duran 1991 and 1997, Figueras y Capdevila 1994, Cabré and Turró 1995, Escartí 1997a, 1997b and 1999, Gómez i Bayarri and López i Verdejo 2002, López Casas 2003, Archer 2010, Lloret 2013 & 2014 and Solervicens 2016.)

Ausiàs March and philosophy in verse One idea runs through all the introductory texts of the sixteenth-century editions of Ausiàs March: in different words and with various implications, editors, translators, biographers, and critics all agree that we are dealing with a philosopher poet. Hence, in 1539, in Joan Navarro’s Valencian presses, the first edition of the century is published, prepared and translated to Castilian by Baltasar de Romaní, who calls March the “most great poet and philosopher” in the title of the work. Romaní’s translation is reedited in Seville in 1553 with no changes in the title, and in 1560 another Castilian translation of March appears in Valencia, Jorge de Montemayor’s, whose title also presents “Mossen Ausiàs” as a “most excellent poet and philosopher”: “The works of the most famous philosopher and poet Mossen Osias Marco, Valencian gentleman of the Catalan nation, translated by Don Baltasar de Romaní and divided into four songs, namely, Song of Love, Moral Song, Song of Death and Spiritual Song. Dedicated to the most excellent Sir Duke of Calabria. Anno M.D.XXXIX” (Pagès 1912, 56). The title of Montemayor’s translation reads: “First part of doi 10.1075/chlel.29.28est © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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the works of the most excellent poet and philosopher Mosen Ausiàs March, Valencian gentleman. Translated from the Limousin language by Iorge de Montemayor and dedicated to the most magnificent Sir Mossen Simon Ros.” And, below the title: “Printed in Valencia, in the House of Ioan Mey. 1560” (Pagès 1912, 87). According to Romaní, March’s designation as a philosopher is due to the great many moral maxims that the poet was able to treat and present with wisdom and in an elevated and complex style. Therefore, March deserves praise not only for having been a poet touched by the Muses in order to compose “high verse,” but also for having been a sensible man, “illustrious in science”: being most virtuous and having great talent, March, like the dedicatee of Romaní’s edition, the Duke of Calabria, was distinguished by his love for knowledge and the study of the arts. In the dedicatory epistle to Don Ferran d’Aragó, Duke of Calabria, Baltasar de Romaní explains how he discovered March’s poems and why he decided to translate them: Since the experience of the world and my age kept me in the shelter of my house, seeking some books to read, I found among the others the morals of Osias Marco, Valencian Gentleman, written in Limousin verse, and toiling to understand its difficult parts, so often, doubting my reading, looking through its verses, I was moved to translate them to the Castilian language for their very style. (Pagès 1912, 57)

As dictated by the conventions of the dedicatory epistle, Romaní praises the dedicatee’s interest in the humanities and puts his knowledge and virtues on a par with those of the author being edited and translated: “All men, great lord, naturally desire knowledge, and those of greater talent and virtue have greater desire for wisdom than the rest; thus those who have greater knowledge of the arts are closer to virtue. Hence the wise are virtuous, and only the virtuous are truly wise” (Pagès 1912, 57–8). Still in the introductory texts of the edition, Romaní dedicates a laudatory poem to Ausiàs March in which he also craves indulgence for the defects that his translation might have: “The interpreter to the author. / O wise March / illustrious in the sciences, / Whom the Muses / so favoured / In rough tongue / with such great eloquence! / Before your works / as in your presence / Mine begs / with timid voice; / Forgive my tongue / which, presumptuous, gave / Your high verse / such low end” (Pagès 1912, 57–8; Duran & Solervicens 1996, 120–21). In short, through natural talent and through dedication, March was able to transmit through complex verse his experience, his goodness, and his doctrine. The praise is repeated in the prologue of the manuscript Lluís Carròs offered to the readers in 1546, through a sense of obligation to restore the excellence and the wise maxims of the poet’s works, corrupted, in his view, by the many errors of the 1543 and 1545 Barcelona printings. Although it is a manuscript, it is useful for us to consider Carròs’s work, since it is in his preface that the first sixteenth-century biography appears, a text that would be included in Juan de Resa’s 1555 edition; and also because the same text in part informed Diego de Fuentes’s life of the poet that appeared in the introductory texts of the 1562 and 1579 reeditions as well as in the translations of Jorge de Montemayor and Baltasar de Romaní. In the epistolary prologue dedicated to Angela Borja y de Carroz de Vilaragut, Carròs explains the research he has done on the life and family of March and assures the reader that he has established the new text with great devotion and with more rigor than those responsible for the Barcelona editions of 1543 and 1545:

Paratexts and mediation329 Having read, seen and recognized many ancient books written by hand by the contemporaries of the author in question, verified and checked the ones against the others and against the two printings done in Barcelona by order of the Third Admiral of Naples, Don Ferrando de Cardona, the first on 22 December of the year 1593 and the other on the same day and month of the year 1595: having seen the errors and oversights of the printers which corrupt the excellence and the opinions of the works in question, I worked diligently for many years to the best of my ability to complete the orders and satisfy the will of the aforementioned noble lady so that her desire be completely satisfied and so that of the author would remain perpetual memory and true writing. (Pagès 1912, 28–31; on the editions of 1543 and 1545, see Pagès 1912, 60–66)

Carròs maintains that March’s verses surpass “in value and esteem, art, style and eloquence” those of the immortal Dante and Petrarch and those of the eloquent Juan de Mena and that never has an author written in verse moral works with such vivid examples and natural comparisons (Pagès 1912, 30). Perhaps Carròs, like Romaní, believed that all of March’s poetry contained moral doctrine, or that of all his literary output, that which most highlighted the poet’s gifts were the most openly moral works. I should point out that Baltasar de Romaní, as the title of his edition reflects, had already divided and organized March’s works into four topics: Love, Moral, Death and Spirit, and that this order, with minor variations, would be adopted by the majority of sixteenth-century editors. Carròs also distributes the poems according to Romaní’s epigraphs, which appear on each page as running titles, although, unlike the other editions and manuscripts of his century, he classifies the final pieces under the rubric of moral works. Carròs stresses the pertinence and effectiveness of the examples and comparisons that March uses to transmit his knowledge: by doing so, he vindicates the rhetorical quality and the advantageous effects of a poetry that is elevated, scientific and, on occasion, obscure. In the dedicatory epistle to the Duke of Sesa, Juan de Resa, preparer of a new edition that appeared in 1555 in Valladolid, also praises the doctrinal and formal value — “intelligence and ornament” — of the many comparisons that March employed admirably to render comprehensible “the many parts that straight out of philosophy” he had borrowed. This praise of the poet allows Resa to justify the opportunity and the interest of the new editorial project and, at the same time, to demand recognition of the merit of this enterprise, a service to the nation: I thought it appropriate to spend time on this, to communicate to my people such a useful work, full of precepts about living, speaking and dying well, in which as in a clear mirror is represented all the reason of human life. Along with that, this book is full of very gracious and elegant sayings, with much beauty and elegance. I do not wish to tell, as every reader can read them, the many and very serious maxims that are mixed in it, the very keen sayings that it uses, the many ingenious tales it introduces, the many parts that it takes straight out of philosophy, resembling Plato in the Dialogue on Love, in the Songs of Love, and Aristotle in the Moral Songs, and Cicero in the Tusculan Disputations, in the Songs of Death, and many other serious authors, pointing this out very admirably in many frequent comparisons that are the light and ornament of the work. (Pagès 1912, 69)

As Carròs had done previously, Resa uses March’s stylistic achievements to highlight above all the skill with which the poet used them to impart to the reader most ingeniously and in a most exemplary way the moral precepts for living a righteous life and for saving their souls. In doing so, Resa shows a poet of ideas — of maxims, sayings, borrowings from philosophy — who examines scientifically the reasons behind love, morality, death, in short, behind the whole of human life, in

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order to find solutions for the troubles of the soul. In the same letter dedicated to the Duke of Sesa, Resa underlines the eloquence, the morality, the erudition, and the usefulness of March’s poetry: It is a very just thing that among the authors that every day are redeemed and freed from the obscurity to which time has relegated them, should appear the most eloquent and moral poet Mossen Ausiàs March, Spaniard. Whose rescue and freedom, although they required more work and care than for any other, because he was in the prison of the Limousin language; of whom so little notice (even among native speakers) exists, his erudition and grace are so great that they amply repay the work we suffer for him. Whose pearls do not lose their value and esteem, by being set in lead, what one does not use, one loses. (Pagès 1912, 68)

Juan de Resa, like the majority of March’s editors and translators, underlines the poet’s eloquence because his aim is to complement the image of the philosopher capable of combining in one text the authority of classical thinkers and of “speaking in metaphors and enigmas” with the image of the virtuous man who is able to fashion his doctrine and his experience into a beneficial and pleasant instrument. Still in the introductory texts, Juan de Resa addresses “The reader” to explain to him the difficulties in comprehension that March’s words create by being written in lemosín and full of figurative meanings: “for often he speaks in metaphors and enigmas, some words are written with that intention and not according to the true meaning of the Occitan language, as you shall see in his own words. He who reads them should not believe the interpetration to be untrue” (Rafanell 1991, 59–60). The introductory texts in Resa’s edition include a laudatory sonnet dedicated to March, in which Jorge de Montemayor makes clear the need to maintain the balance between the divine poet and the didactic poet: March’s future translator affirms that his most inspired verses rise to the heavens, but that did not stop the poet from showing “here on Earth” the place reserved for him “in paradise” (Pagès 1912, 69; Riquer 1946, xxiii). In 1560, the Duke of Soma, Ferran Folch de Cardona, sponsored a new edition printed in Barcelona by Claudi Bornat. In the endreça (dedication) that the printer dedicates to the duke, Bornat praises Folch de Cardona for his longstanding support of March’s works, evidenced by his emulating the poet in the study of “les coses de la philosophia moral y natural” (things of moral and natural philosophy) and by his becoming worthy, through noteworthy deeds and words, of honors like those achieved by March. In the introductory texts to this edition there are three couplets by Francesc Calça in honor of Francesc Antic Roca, in which he explains that the latter is responsible for the reprinting of March’s works. Pagès (1912, 74–78) believes that Antic Roca was also the author of the dedicatory epistle to the “gran Almirant de Nàpols” (Great Admiral of Naples) and that he preferred to hide behind the name of the printer; in any case, it is Bornat who signs the epistle and it is to him that I attribute its contents. Bornat addresses Ferran Folch de Cardona to thank him for his interest in March and to lament, as is usual for editors, although Bornat does it in a more veiled manner, the great negligence with which the poet has been treated by those who have disseminated his work in the past: For most certain, the occasion that principally moved your illustrious lordship to order that the works of Ausiàs March be printed must have been born more of compassion than of disdain, seeing clearly that fortune was not just content to subvert the states and the happiness of men and the rest of its subjects, but also our memory, the fruits of genius, and, finally, everything that human industry has wrought to vanquish death, presuming by it to extend its reach. For certain, what a strange and diverse thing is the desire of the one who writes. Was it not enough

Paratexts and mediation331 for that goddess, being blind, to have offended our Ausiàs March in so many things, to wish to offend him in his writings, in his works, and finally, in his immortality? One thing, for sure, that should not be borne, especially by Your Lordship, who has always been a fan of his works, is that they and his noteworthy labour should remain imperfect. (Duran & Solervicens 1996, 121–22)

Bornat also resorts to the usual comparison of the merits of the dedicatee and of the poet, which he claims to share as March’s editor: And like he does? Like our Ausiàs March, being praised by others who wrote in a similar discipline, your lordship is also now by many, for the particular care that you have taken to be learned in matters of moral and natural philosophy, for which reason your words and acts are so notable, that men tire sooner of counting them than Your Lordship of making them worthy of glory. And because I only wished to have a small part of this, I aimed, in imitation of your lordship, to continue the establishment of the works of Ausiàs March, by publishing them newly in my house as correctly as possible, rectifying these and adjusting those things that had been omitted. (Duran & Solervicens 1996, 121–22)

Although for his sixteenth-century editors March is above all a moral philosopher, Bornat also believes that he deals with concepts of natural philosophy by using medical and psycho-­ physiological terms and knowledge to speak of questions of the soul. Through his praise of the Duke of Soma, Bornat projects again the image of a scientific and virtuous poet and with it, reveals the tension that comes from attempting to reconcile the complex wisdom of his verses with a moralizing effect that would justify the recovery and dissemination of his work. Thus, Bornat believes that March’s compositions abound in extremely delicate concepts whose goal is for young readers to attain “true understanding and gentility in matters of love,” but at the same time he must admit that often, not even older or wiser readers are able to understand his pronouncements, which “address the infinite” (Duran & Solervicens 1996, 121–22). In these same introductory texts there appear some laudatory verses by Francesc Calça in which the author affirms that March is so subtle and profound that one can no more understand him than a Basque or an Armenian (Pagès 1912, 75). In 1633, Vicent Mariner translated into Latin and edited March’s works. He divided the pieces into six books of elegies, to which he includes a preface thanking Luis de Haro for allowing him to recover, revitalize, and immortalize March. Likewise, in recounting the author’s life, he praises the poet for managing to incorporate into his poems all manner of scientific knowledge and he compares him to ancient Greek thinkers — Empedocles, Theognis, Parmenides — who wrote philosophy in verse. Mariner also shared the view that March’s poetry was full of difficulties. Hence, the poet himself supposedly confessed that no one would be able to understand him completely, an awareness that, according to the translator, showed divine talent and an exalted mind in the Vincentii Marinerii Valentini Praefatio (Prologue by Vicent Mariner): This happy situation affects our Ausiàs March in a way that it has never affected anyone, because revitalizing him with your mind is nothing less than opening the door to immortality for March’s work, preventing it from fading away with the lethargy of time, being wounded by the ravages of death or harmed by the bitterness of envy. (Coronel Ramos 1997, 96)

And in the Ausiae Marchi elegantissimi poetae Valentini uita (Life of Ausiàs March), Mariner also praises the poet’s keen comparisons, likens him to Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas, mentions his knowledge of medicine, and stresses the great complexity of March’s poetry, which, the

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translator would have us believe, is acknowledged by the poet himself in poem 111 “Axí com cell qui es parteix de sa terra” (Like the man who lives his country; Coronel Ramos 1997, 106 & 108; Bohigas 2000, 393–94).

Ausiàs March and the poetry of Petrarch Vicent Mariner presents two versions of the poet’s life, the one written by Lluís Carròs in the introduction to the 1546 manuscript, which was mainly disseminated via Juan de Resa’s edition, Mariner’s source; and the version published by Luis Tribaldo de Toledo and Pere Antoni Beuter, which was also supported by evidence in other sixteenth-century introductions. According to Carròs and Resa, March lived in the time of Alfonso of Aragon, who reigned from 1416 to 1457; however, the other authors assert that March was a knight in the court of James I, and that in 1250, the poet took part in the expedition backed by the monarch to conquer the Balearic Islands (Coronel Ramos 1997, 102 & 104). Mariner, Luis de Tribaldo, Beuter, and others’ interest in disseminating this second (wrong) chronology can be explained by the fact that it allows them to claim that Ausiàs March came before Petrarch and that Petrarch knew and imitated his works. Mariner indicates that in 1327, that is, according to him, a few years after March accompanied James I to the Balearic Islands, Petrarch began to compose his poetry, burning with love for Laura. Mariner then presents the opinion of historian Pere Antoni Beuter, according to whom Petrarch, while in the Pyrenees with the bishop of Lumbier, studied March’s work and took from it the verses he found most beautiful: “But a few years later, namely in 1327, Francesco Petrarca burned with love for his Laura, and undertook to write of it in songs. And when he was in the Pyrenees with the Bishop of Lumbier, under Pople John XXIII, he was able to receive the works of our poet, and the things that seemed to him pleasing and suited to poetry, he borrowed, as Pere Antoni Benter, in the introduction of his history, easily showed” (Coronel Ramos 1997, 104). To confirm this hypothesis, Mariner adds that Tribaldo explained to him that he had experienced firsthand accounts in Naples that asserted that people had seen books in Florence written by Petrarch containing some of the poetry of Ausiàs March: “Furthermore, the aforementioned Tribaldo has confirmed this opinion on the chronology of the poet, informing me that he had learned in Naples of the boastful declarations of the illustrious Alfonso de Velasco, who claimed to have seen, in the exceptional library of the Duke of Florence, some hand-written works by Petrarch with the verses of Ausiàs March” (Coronel Ramos 1997, 104). Juan López de Hoyos had already pointed out that March could have been a model for Petrarch in the “Parecer” (Biographical sketch) on the poet that accompanied the reeditions of the Castilian translations: “Regarding his conceits, they are so strong, that those of discerning judgement believe that Petrarch took many of his most refined ones from that author (March).” This version of the historical relationship between the poets is believable, as well as advantageous for March’s “canonization,” being the last turn of the screw in an editorial and interpretive tradition that has linked the figure, the life, and the work of March to those of Petrarch to the point that he has become Petrarch’s predecessor and master. By organizing the poems that he had compiled and translated into songs of love, moral songs, songs of death, and spiritual songs, Romaní and the editors who would follow in adopting this order explicitly adhere to a Petrarchian way of organizing and reading March’s verses which

Paratexts and mediation333 goes back to the cancioneros of the end of the fifteenth century and which projects onto the set of poems an autobiographical narration that would present a romantic experience analogous to that which we attribute to the protagonist of the Canzoniere, that is, a progression from passion to repentance with a final resolution in the moral conversion of the lyric subject. In an attempt to replicate more completely the structure and the general meaning attributed to Petrarch’s cancionero, the compilers and editors of March’s “book” tend to place first Poem 1 of the modern canon, “Axí com cell qui en lo somni es delita” (I am like a man who spends his life in dreams), and attribute to it the function of preface, with the understanding that in it, March acknowledges the foolishness of love and declares his will to renounce carnal desire, an attitude that editors and commentators have considered analagous to Petrarch’s, who writes for those who “hear in rima suelta the sighs that nurtured his youthful error.” Those behind the Barcelonese edition of 1543 prefer that poem 39, “Qui no es trist, de mos dictats no cur” (Only sad lovers, or who once were such; Bohigas 2000, 157–58), act as a prologue, since it opens with an interpellation of the readers similar to Petrarch’s. This piece had already been the preface of some cancioneros of March’s work in the late fiftenth and early sixteenth century. The same editors divide the poems into three sections so that the lyric subject’s lived experience better fits the pre-established structure (for more on the formation of March’s “book” based on Petrarch cancioneros and on a reading of Poem I as preface, see Bohigas 2000, 77–78 and Cabré & Turró 1995). The same premises explain that Romaní eliminates the tornades (short stanza addressed to a patron, lady, or friend) and the senhals (pseudonyms) of the original compositions because they are elements that link March’s poetry to the tradition of the troubadours and obfuscate the identification of the Valencian author’s Laura. It is Carròs who attributes a name to March’s beloved when retelling the poet’s life: [Ausiàs March was] the very affectionate servant of Doña Teresa Bou, a Valencian lady so gentle, virtuous, honest and wise, as the works done in her service show, in the service of whom, in life and after her death, he wrote the most part of this book: in the works of which you will see the most complete and perfect honest love that any enamoured knight has ever felt or written. (Pagès 1912, 31)

March does in fact sing the praises of a lady named Teresa for her physical beauty and her moral qualities, but only in the poem “Lexant a part l’estil dels trobadors” (I do not need to write like the troubadours). Nonetheless, for Carròs, discovering that the poet had had a relationship with a Valencian lady named Teresa Bou was enough to confirm the expectations created by the conventions imposed by the Petrarchian tradition, that is, that the honest lover and the virtuous lady to whom he sings in life and in death had existed outside of the textual universe. In another sixteenth-century manuscript of March’s work, some knowledgeable reader or other noted in the margin of “Lexant a part…” that the lady of the poem was Teresa Bou, whom March had taken “for matters of Platonic love, as poets are wont to do, imitating Petrarch in his love for Laura” (Pagès 1912, 28–31). When Juan de Resa collected the biography written by Carròs, he took for granted that Teresa Bou inspired the works of March: “His lady, for whom he wrote so many excellent things, was called Doña Teresa Bou, a native of Valencia” (Pagès 1912, 69). Teresa Bou would play the same role in the life of the poet written by Diego de Fuentes, which appeared in the reeditions of Montemayor’s translation with a section of Romaní’s translation, which were published in Zaragoza in 1562 and in Madrid in 1579.

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Carròs also compares March to Petrarch, but not in order to establish points of contact, similiarities, or imitations between the two poets’ lives and work, but rather, to vindicate that the Valencian poet’s verses are superior to the Italian poet’s and to the works of poets in vernacular languages, above all for their morality, but at the end of the day, in all their aspects. By doing so, Carròs reveals the point to which the interpretive and biographical schemas spread by Petrarchian poetics had become what poets were accustomed to feeling and writing. The Petrarchization of March’s life conferred on the poet more moral authority and exemplarity: his experience as an honest lover adds to his knowledge of philosophy and all acts for the benefit of his readers. However, the supposed moral honesty of March the lover is contrasted with the fact that Jorge de Montemayor preferred not to translate certain of the poet’s estanças because in them, the author allegedly spoke “more freely than usual today,” as the translator declares in the preface “To the reader” of his 1560 translation. In any case, it is possible that Montemayor’s decision was made to preserve the moral reputation that had been created for the author (Pagès 1912, 88). In that light, it is significant that Diego de Fuentes invented a virtuous and hardworking childhood for March, because it foreshadowed the honesty, the wisdom, and the spirituality reflected in the songs dedicated to his beloved: Because leaving their own homeland, Ausiàs’s parents went to Valencia, where after a short time, the noble lady conceived and bore a son, whom they named Ausias Marco. It pleased the Divine Majesty that the son thus born, walking the straight and narrow path of life, with the help of his parents’ exhortation and divine inspiration, was not content just to become a paragon of virtue like his elderly parents, but got ahead in such a way that with serious study he achieved high honours in school. And he carried out such honest work so much that afterwards, for his many excellent qualities, he was honoured as a poet, no less famous than was the most erudite Francesco Petrarca in our times. (Riquer 1946, xxx)

We can interpret that Diego de Fuentes converted into stages of the poet’s education the divine inspiration and the study that March’s admirers praised in their verses in the introductory texts of various editions. The biography is completed with the (expected) “honest love” that the erudite March “took” for Teresa Bou, for whose “discreet praises and high level of erudition” the poet was able to elevate his style to sing the virtues of the lady in his “high and most incomprehensible verses.” I should point out that the strictly “literary” motives that Diego de Fuentes attributes to the poet’s falling in love somewhat lessen the authority that March, as a repentant lover, would add to his standing as a moral philosopher: It happened as it does when those of this profession, to sometimes show the strength and spirit of their verses with a more elevated style, take honest lovers; in the same way, our most erudite poet fell in love with a woman no less discreet than beautiful, called Teresa Bou, born in the same city of Valencia. Whose discreet praises and high level of erudition allowed our honoured poet, in his high and most incomprehensible verses, to sing of the excellence and great wonders of this most noble Lady, who will live on in them. (Riquer 1946, xxx)

In his study of the sixteenth-century Castilian translation of March, Martín de Riquer (1946, xxxii) pointed out that the belief that Petrach imitated the Valencian poet, which is mentioned first by Juan López de Hoyos and later by Vicent Mariner, originated in a passage of Juan Boscán’s letter to the Duchess of Soma, which led to the interpretation that March was the greatest of the proençal poets, a contemporary of Dante and thus, earlier than Petrarch. Doubtless, a slanted

Paratexts and mediation335 reading of Boscán’s comment must have helped the hypothesis gain credibility, but for it to be plausible, it must also have corresponded with the image of March that editors, translators, commenters, and biographers had created over the course of the entire century. We should recall that the hypothesis was formulated in an editorial and interpretive context in which March’s poetry was adapted to conform to a moral discourse on the experience of love, in which the poems which best could serve as a prologue to this discourse were selected, in which the virtuous lady that inspires it is identified, and in which a biography of the poet that supports this discourse is constructed in order to both justify and lend authority to it. We should not forget, either, that Jorge de Montemayor turned March’s decasyllables into Italian hendecasyllables when translating his works into Castilian; that Boscán himself, Garcilaso de la Vega, Fernando de Herrera, and other poets and critics of the century often gloss March’s verse with references to Petrarch; that in no few places is March compared to the Italian poet and that some commenters understand that, as a good poet, he took a lover to follow the custom established by the Italian. In short, all the affinities created between the lives and works of the two poets were first necessary and later decisive for it to be believable and useful to claim that March was the model of the poet who sang of Laura. The immortal Ausiàs March: invention of a classic In any case, the opportunity to transform March into another Petrarch of the Spanish literary tradition explains the interest sixteenth-century editors had in distributing his work, and at the same time, the Petrarchization to which they subject the poet gives them arguments to justify the appropriateness of editing his work various times during the century. We must remember that as March is assimilated to the structures of Petrarchian poetics, his work becomes current, gains moral authority, and becomes even more instructive when the poet becomes a lover who purifies his love as he reaches maturity, and thus, becomes wiser and more virtuous and his words more scientific and obscure. All of this means that March, like the classics, must be rescued from obscurity and edited not any which way, but “with great care and diligence,” as Carles Amorós assures he has done in the title of the 1545 reedition of the 1543 Barcelona compilation, a title accompanied by a woodcut of a phoenix and the inscription “Deservedly. A man with the reputation of a phoenix. He who made the works in this book deserves it” (Pagès 1912, 65). In the 1560 edition, the subtitle highlights March’s antiquity: “The works of the most prolific and elegant poet: Valiant and ancient knight Ausiàs March” (Pagès 1912, 75). In order for March to rise from the ashes, editors like Amorós believe that his work must be disseminated, like the cancioneros of Petrarch, with the appropriate critical apparatus, that is, with the declaration of the vocables scurs (difficult words), in the margin and only in Catalan in 1543, but in a table and listed alphabetically with a Castilian translation in the 1545 reedition. Claudi Bornat’s 1560 Barcelona edition also collects at the end of the book the “taula y alphabet dels vocables scurs” (Index of difficult words): it is a slightly expanded reprinting of the glossary that precedes the 1545 Barcelona edition, the explanation is given in Catalan and in some cases also in Castilian (Pagès 1912, 66). Clarifying the meaning of the most complex terms, restoring, as Carròs has attempted to do, the “true and original text” of March’s writing, and informing readers of the author’s character

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and education and the reasons and feelings that moved him to compose verses, as well as indicating and praising the achievements of these verses, should allow the reader to understand more completely the meaning of the work and to reflect more precisely on the value and the benefit of March. Juan de Resa also boasts of having prepared the 1555 edition with great philological rigor and of accompanying the compositions with a glossary in order to free March’s poetry from “the prison of the Occitan language” (Pagès 1912, 68). The cited passage belongs to the dedicatory epistle to the Duke of Sesa, but the same ideas appear in the privilegio of the edition, issued in Valladolid in November of 1554 (Pagès 1912, 67–68). Resa explains that March’s language is full of “Provençal words” that are so “rarely used” that native speakers of “that language” were not even able to explain to his satisfaction the meaning of many of its terms and expressions. These comprehension problems add to the obscurity that sixteenth-century editors attribute to March’s style, rich in metaphors and enigmas. However, Resa believes that his efforts, just like the inconvenience that the Occitan may cause new readers of March, will be rewarded by “the precepts of how to live, converse and die well” which the Valencian’s poetry manages to transmit regardless: “For although I made no small effort to learn from native speakers of the language that which I did not understand, they were unable to satisfy me completely, as these Provençal words that the author uses in his work are archaic, and their meaning has already changed” (Rafanell 1991, 56–60). Vicent Mariner also considers in the prologue to his 1633 Latin translation the artistic and philosophical limitations of March’s fifteenth-century Catalan with arguments similar to those that so many humanists had used to condemn poetry written in the vernacular, but in this case used to argue, as so many editors, commenters, and biographers of Petrarch had done, that March deserves the highest praise precisely for his ability to use his natural talent and divine inspiration to confer majesty on a language as arid as Occitan and to express such subtle concepts in a language of limited vocabulary and few rhetorical devices. Mariner follows closely the strategy adopted by the “canonizers” of Petrarch and compares the near-miraculous achievements of March in his language to those achieved by Homer and Virgil in Greek and Latin respectively (Coronel Ramos 1997, 106 & 108). Nonetheless, for the sixteenth-century editors, the limitations of March’s Occitan are due to the fact that it is a Provençal that Catalan speakers no longer use, that few barely understand, and that outside of its region of linguistic dominance, is even more incomprehensible. Thus, the glossaries and, of course, the Castilian translations must allow March’s work to be disseminated to a greater number of readers. Therefore, Juan de Resa explains “To the Reader” in the introduction to his edition how he has developed the definitions of the difficult words and concludes: “All the foregoing is for the benefit of our Castilian readers who know nothing of this language; I do not claim to address the Valencians and Catalans, or the Castilians who are expert in it, as they understand it better than I. That is all” (quoted in Rafanell 1991, 59–60). However, perhaps because of the comprehension difficulties the texts presents and because of the lack of familiarity that the new readers of Valladolid, Zaragoza, and Madrid might have with the poet’s original language, some editors and commenters insist on underlining the fact that March belongs to the Spanish literary tradition. Thus, while Baltasar de Romaní refers to March as “Valencian poet and knight of the Catalan nation” and no indication of the poet’s nationality appears in the titles of the Barcelona editions of 1543 and 1545, in the privilegio of Juan de Resa’s edition we read: “Whereas a request has been

Paratexts and mediation337 made by you, Juan de Resa, our chaplain, stating that you have diligently collected and compiled the works of Ausiàs March, Spanish poet,” and in the dedicatory letter to the Duke of Sesa, Resa makes a point of underlining the fact that he has “redeemed and freed from obscurity” an extremely eloquent, moral, and Spanish poet. We might consider it a response to the desire to make quite clear the fact that March is a Spanish poet that in the introductory texts to the 1560 Barcelona edition there appears a “Sonnet by Pedro Seraphi to the immortality of Mossen Ausiàs March, Catalan poet” (my italics), although the compilation also contains a Latin poem by Francesc Calça that is not distinguished because it is “in praise of Ausiàs March, Hispanic poet” (Pagès 1912, 74–5). In the “Parecer” on the poet that precedes the 1579 reedition of Montemayor’s translation, Juan López de Hoyos shows how foreign the Occitan can be to sixteenth-century readers and, in so doing, emphasizes that March’s poetry is worthy of translation and publication because some experts believe that it was the model for Petrarch, but above all, because he is a Spanish author: By Your Highness’ command, I looked at this book of poetry by the famous poet Ausiàs March. Who is a Spanish poet, and wrote in the Limousin language, which is a language between Catalan and Valencian, or, more correctly, a mix of Catalan and some Galician and Valencian. It is translated into Castilian by Jorge de Montemayor. In its ideas, it is so deep that those of discerning judgement believe that Petrarch took many of his most refined ideas from it. It is worthy of being printed. In all else it is very correct, and it deserves for its good ideas to be seen and known, because they are from one of our own Spanish men, who is Valencian. (Pagès 1912, 92; Riquer 1946, xxxi)

López de Hoyos’s words show that editors have consolidated the image of March as a classical, virtuous, and eloquent moral philosopher and that because of that, it is useful to present him also as a treasure of national culture that can give prestige to their own tradition in contrast to classical literature and other vernacular ones and can compete with their “classics,” like Petrarch, for example. Characterizing March in this way and emphasizing that he is Spanish should serve to raise readers’ appreciation of the poet and to allow them to conquer the reticence they may have due to his style, which, in addition to appearing obscure, in its original language may also appear foreign. If we take at their word the critiques of the editors, each of whom accuses the others in prologues and dedications of having treated the poet’s work with negligence and thus of having twisted the meaning of the author’s work time and time again, we should find in each compilation a distinct March; however, the editors, translators, commenters, and biographers of the century conceive the figure, the work, and the life of the poet in very similar terms. The editors share an interest in promoting March as a poet badly done by at the hands of time, who deserves to be rescued from obscurity and immortalized for the quality and benefit of his work and because he belongs to the national literary tradition. Thus, for its didactic value, they must bring out the deep and complex moral doctrine contained in March’s work; philosophical knowledge that justifies the difficulties and mysteries that the readers must encounter — as the editors and translators have done before them — but that, in any case, March managed to exude with an eloquence that guarantees a beneficial and pleasurable reading experience. Due to its inherent value, it is essential to highlight March’s antiquity, as a proenzal poet whose harsh Occitan distanced him from the cultural and linguistic context of the sixteenth century, and to maintain in circulation the histories that place him in

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Dante’s time and that help to cast him as Petrarch’s master. Nonetheless, it is equally useful to stress the relevance and validity of his poetry, that is, to emphasize and, when necessary, adapt some characteristics of his work, of his life, and of his personality that best fit the principles of poeticity and the criteria for value established by Petrarchian critics and poets, mainly Italian and Spanish, since the late fifteenth century. Hence, the moral philosopher fuses together with the honest lover and thus has the authority to deal with conflicts of the soul that he has gained through personal experience. In order to persuade readers of this, it is crucial to disseminate a life of the poet that identifies the virtuous lady that purified March’s spirit and dignified his verses. In reality, in the introductory texts of the compilations, the editors and commenters manipulate a small number of ideas to define and promote March’s work. Nonetheless, we are talking about conceptual frameworks of mediation that have points of contact with and that sustain each other: this explains how they manage to construct an image of March that is tightly woven, long-lasting, and effective for their purposes.

Quis libri legendi The canon and the forms of its assimilation in Renaissance rationes studiorum Iveta Nakládalová The didactic methodology of the early modern pedagogical tradition is set out in specific educational treatises – rationes studiorum or institutiones – and in certain related genres, like Espejos de príncipes (Mirrors for princes), moralizing dialogues or guide books. All these texts recognize the act of reading – lectio – as one of the main pedagogical principles, an integral element of all basic levels of teaching (the trivium), since it represents the first and immediate source of knowledge. Reading, therefore, is not an auxiliary or subsidiary practice, but lies at very heart of the didactic methodology and is the essential means of instruction, in contrast to the mainly oral teaching of earlier periods. The early modern period is, in fact, the last historical stage in the Western cultural tradition where the text is, simultaneously, the focus, or objective, of learning, and also its instrument: unlike later periods, which promote empirical observation, the Renaissance gives priority to knowledge that is textually transmitted and preserved. From this point of view, lectio embodies one of the most important epistemological instruments. The importance of this gnoseological context can hardly be overstated, since early modern scholars belonged to a world that was not excessively receptive to empiria. As Anthony Grafton (2001, 334) put it, the Renaissance is “the last moment in which European intellectuals consider books as the principal source of facts and ideas.” In other words, they did not disregard individual experience, but rather viewed it as the repository of ethical – not scientific – values. As a result, the ideals of Renaissance eruditio are mediated essentially by textual practices. The disciplines seem to steer clear of empiria, direct and immediate experience, or contact with natura uncontaminated by the text; in other words, contemporary epistemology was characterized by a strong tendency towards the textualization of knowledge. These considerations, Grafton seems to suggest, are valid also for seventeenth century natural philosophy; even for scholars like Kepler, the scientific method continued to focus on textual practices, the most important of which was the assembly of information gathered from canonical works: “The normal Early Modern scientist resembled a bookworm dragging its length down endless shelves rather than Cesi’s lynx fiercely scrutinizing the secrets of nature” (Grafton 1997, 197). Literary, often exclusively literary sources, served as transmitters of knowledge that was not only textual or belonging to the realm of classical realia; they mediated the body of universal knowledge in general. Early modern science, in this respect, placed much greater emphasis on the experience of reading than on anything that was seen or sensed, the direct observation of nature, or experimentation in the modern sense. And it was precisely this paradigm of experientia litterata, the idea that scholarship should be identified with mastering a canon of classical authors, that turned reading – and textual gnoseological practices in general – into essential vehicles of learning. In this respect, Renaissance didactic guidelines set out, first and foremost, to govern and regulate the experience of reading, imposing a curriculum of authors, together with methods for assimilating them (the doctrine of interpretatio) as the central pedagogical methodus. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.29nak © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Naturally, rationes studiorum do not reduce the methodological approach to questions of curriculum and selections of relevant study texts; they also ponder the nature of these texts and literary genres, discuss how they affect the reader and his level of education, consider specific study techniques, the qualifications of the teacher and the obligations of the student. Furthermore, they also deal with a number of lesser methodological questions (for example, the most appropriate hours and circumstances for study). Nevertheless, the pedagogical methodus and the most important curricular issues focus, first and foremost, on determing the canon. It is worth mentioning that almost all theoretical treatises point out the need to master the auctores, the great Latin and Greek authorities that students had to assimilate and imitate. This imitatio, however, was not merely mimesis of the classics, appropriating the literary legacy of Antiquity and meticulously reproducing its linguistic models, but encompassed all aspects of its culture and epistemology, setting itself up at the epicenter of the ideal of erudition. The important aspect is that the instrument used to channel the acquisition of eruditio was precisely literature, structuring it into different levels. In the first place, classical texts offered discursive models, linguistic skills and abilities, the principles of elocutio and the precepts of argumentation. Secondly, reading the classics provided the student with factual information, knowledge of the world and of the material culture of Antiquity, an essential aspect of Renaissance gnoseological models. Finally, it also promoted ethical qualities. Classical works represented paradigms of virtue, and could therefore shape the moral education of the student. These assumptions regarding the virtues of lectio helped determine the canon; texts recommended for study had to fulfill three conditions: they should offer factual information; they should exhibit the purity of Latin (and to a lesser extent Greek); finally, they should exemplify ethical and doctrinal paradigms. Having said that, we should keep in mind that the Renaissance methodus did not a priori exclude texts written by modern authors. Nonetheless, in order to attain the eruditio that they aspired to, the guidelines for teaching and learning that were developed within the framework of the studia humanitatis preferred the classics, while other texts seem to have had different purposes in mind. By way of example, we can quote a passage by Lorenzo Palmireno (1568, 29), author of several minor pedagogical works. When listing recommended devotional treatises (“When you begin to understand Terence fairly well, you will read some of the following works in Latin: the Rationale divinorum officiorum. Marko Marulić’s De institutione bene vivendi. Joachim Périon’s Vita Christi. Joachim Périon’s Acta Apostolorum…”), he points out that the objective of these readings is not, strictly speaking, didactic. They are not meant to provide factual information or serve as stylistic models, but to inspire devotion in the reader: When strolling down the path towards the chapel reading one of the aforementioned works, and you feel fervor within and devotion, close the book and walk very slowly: and as you experience the pleasure that the sweet scent of thyme, of rosemary, of lavender gives you, and contemplate the bright colors of other herbs and flowers, you will say, How magnificent are your works, Lord, you have made all things in wisdom; the earth is filled with your possessions. (Palmireno, 1568, 29)

Quis libri legendi One of the problems with canonical readings is the fact that recommendations about quis libri legendi (approved authors) are normally restricted to providing general advice to use good books. Treatises very often draw up long lists of suitable authors, but do not explain the criteria on

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which the selection is based. In his treatise on the education of the nobility, for example, Pedro López de Montoya (a major Spanish pedagogical theorist), after emphasizing the need to learn Latin, explains that “it is also very important for learning the language to select the Authors carefully, such as Terence, Horace, Virgil, Cicero, Livy” (1595, fol. 75v). He does not however specify the principles behind this particular choice, and this is typical of most advice and curricular guidelines. Theorists generally prefer readings of the classics, natural and moral philosophy, or historians, but they do not go into detail about how to distinguish a good book, nor do they explicitly draw up a curriculum. Furthermore, the early modern canon fluctuates considerably, although it tends to be very pragmatic, especially at the more basic levels of education, which are concerned mainly with the question of language (that is, it involves the selection of readings and manuals suitable for learning Latin). Within these basic parameters, specific rules vary a great deal, although canonical texts always tend to be regarded as introductions to the auctores, due to the Renaissance idea of the argumentative possibilities of auctoritas and to the way they thought of imitatio (which required literary models and preferred the maiores, the greats). In this sense, imitation went far beyond strictly rhetorical applications and constituted a methodus, or didactic formula, in itself. It should also be remembered that early modern scholarly culture was largely conditioned by the phenomenon of diglossia. The instruction of the upper social classes was carried out in various languages, vernacular and classical, and mastering them was one of the primary objectives of the didactic practice of the studia humanitatis. Competence in Latin was a sine qua non for becoming familiar with the classical cultural legacy (systemized in the model of seven liberal arts). “The gateway to sciences is Grammar and knowledge of Latin,” recalls Pedro López de Montoya (1595, fol. 76v) in his Libro de la buena educación y enseñança de los nobles (Book of good education for noblemen), recreating the widespread image of the ianua linguarum. Knowledge of Latin, which gave access to classical texts, established a clear dividing line between the lower social classes, on the one hand, and those who belonged to a scholarly culture, on the other. The scholarly (savantes) disciplines were written in Latin and mastery of ancient languages constituted a sort of rite of initiation, not only in scholarly culture, but also for civil servants. The vernacular, on the other hand, was associated with domestic and family life, women and the subaltern classes. From this perspective, humanists perceived the studia humanitatis not only as a project of personal education or development, so to speak, but also as a means of intellectual and social distinction. Through the essential premises and requierements of eruditio and the use of Latin, the learned elites shared a cultural language, common ground, a vehicle for the shared forms of “gesture, allusion, in-group reference which set them off from any outsider, however learned and literate, and which forged in them a sense of loyalty to and ease in dealing with one another” (Grafton 1981, 37). On the other hand, the phenomenon of diglossia in Renaissance scholarly culture shaped an intrinsic correspondence between the study of Latin (and eventually Greek) and the possibility of gaining access to other disciplines (Rico 1993, 69 & 155). Within this basic dynamic of linguistic diglossia, curricular advice focuses first of all on the selection (and use) of manuals for learning Latin, emphasizing, out of all possible characteristics, their linguistic purity. Theorists strongly recommend employing direct, primary sources, the “best ancient authors”, described as fountains of pure water – representing a discourse that is pure and authentic – compared to the barbarians who would rather resort to medieval grammar compendia. This attitude is very characteristic of Juan Maldonado, whose treatise Paraenesis ad litteras (Exhortation to literary studies), first published in 1529, can be defined as a diatribe

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against the methodology of the grammarians: “In other towns and kingdoms, those who are in charge of the education of young people follow Cicero and Quintilian. These educators, after a very brief introduction, immediately confront their students with the best authors […]. Our compatriots, on the other hand, confront our children with Antonio de Nebrija’s grammar book” (Asensio & Alcina Rovira 1980, 147). The same passage explains that the “best authors” serve as stylistic models (since “the use of Latin expressions and figures of speech must be taken from selected authors”), whose discourse the students should imitate; at the same time, it lists the authors worthy of imitation as “the best authors to drink from in order to learn the characteristic features and style of eloquence and of written composition” (Maldonado 1980, 100). The usus, the consuetudo that the earliest Italian humanists called for appears, then, to be quite different from the usual didactic practice, which corrupted the proper use of Latin. Cristóbal de Villalón suggests precisely this in El Scholástico (The ideal scholar), a dialogue that set out to define the idea of the perfect scholar and to develop specific guidelines for his education: By the way, Master, I wished to express my opinion on this topic when the opportunity arose, because it seems to me that there is a great need to reform this in our country of Spain, where they attempt to instruct their students using ledgers and books that are barbaric, corrupt and depraved, mainly in their use of Latin, quite unlike the custom in other fortunate provinces like Italy and Germany, where, and this is very common, they teach the students their first letters and words in a very elegant Latin, showing them authors and refined poets so that when they are to study grammar, they already know something about it and learn it more easily. (Villalón 1997, 212)

Nevertheless, there were also authors who preferred instruction to be given in the mother tongue, although they confine recommendations to the most basic levels of education and to the very first contact with Latin, when it was not yet possible to use the auctores directly. Pedro López de Montoya, to quote one example, criticizes the use of Latin grammars, which represented an enormous challenge for the students, because they explained the grammar rules directly in Latin, which meant that it was difficult to understand them properly: “I believe it is a great error to adopt the habit of teaching children the grammar precepts in Latin; firstly, these precepts are numerous; secondly, they are being taught in a language that is unintelligible and confusing to them, so that learning it is a chore to the students and takes them a long time […] And, so, there is no doubt that it would be more appropriate to teach grammar in Castilian, omitting those rules that are an annoyance and trying to make them less dull” (Montoya 1595, fol. 75r). It is clear, nevertheless, that debates on the direct use of the ancients should be examined within the broader framework of justifications for the studia humanitatis. When the humanists established the reading of classical texts as the basis of their educational program, they were forced to develop multiple strategies to justify them to those who criticized pagan texts. In essence, these strategies tended to restrict the ways in which pagan literature could be perceived and interpreted, and to assert its usefulness as part of the complete education of the individual. In their defense of the studia humanitatis, humanists laid considerable stress on the moral attributes of pagan texts; in other words, they resorted to one of the central principles of early modern textuality, which was to give priority to the ethical attributes of a discourse (to the doctrine of the text) over its rhetorical or literary qualities. At first glance, the debates of the quis libri legendi refer to these moral qualities in a stereotypical and highly formal way, by simply listing the great canonical authors (autores probatissimi), as if the very status of auctoritas guaranteed the appropriateness of a text. This seems to be the

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case of the Jesuit ratio studiorum, one of the few explicit educational programs in the Hispanic area, which confines itself to listing the authors most suitable for each discipline (although it does mention that certain authors should only be used in expurgated form). Hence, the teacher of an intermediate grammar class should, during the prelectio, only turn to “the easiest of Cicero’s letters Ad Familiares, and of Ovid’s poems. In the second semester, if approved by the Prefect, students can use the Greek catechism or the ‘Tabula of Cebes’” (Gil 1992, 241). Meanwhile, the teacher of humanities was given the following guidelines: “In the first semester, they will choose between the easiest prose authors, for example, some of the speeches of Isocrates, Chrysostom or Basil, or letters of Plato and Synesius, or selected passages from Plutarch. In the second semester, certain poems will be explained, such as those by Phocylides, Theognis, Gregory of Nazianzus, Synesius and other similar ones” (Gil 1992, 229). Finally, the teacher of the highest grammar class should use: Cicero’s most important letters Ad Familiares, Ad Atticum, Ad Quintum Fratem; and in the second [semester], the books De Amicitia, De Senectute, Paradoxa, and others like them. Of the poets, in the first semester, some selected and expurgated elegies and epistles by Ovid; and in the second, others similarly selected and expurgated by Catullus, Tibullus, Propertius, and Virgil’s eclogues, or Virgil’s easier books, like the fourth book of the Georgics or the fifth and seventh of the Aeneid. Of the Greeks, you will use St. John Chrysostom, Aesop, Agapetus and others like them. (Gil 1992, 233)

By using lists of probatissimi authors to settle questions concerning the curriculum, the institutiones appear to be structuring the canon according to a higher ethical principle; however, as has been already said, they do not specify the ontological reasons for this selection, nor do they clarify its doctrinal and ideological background. As a case in point, the Jesuit ratio, with its lists of authors (focused on classical texts since Ignatius of Loyola himself placed ancient literature at the heart of his teaching program), and its “Reglas del prepósito provincial” (Rules for the provincial superior) seems to offer principles that determine how the curriculum should be structured and organized. Nonetheless, adoption of the classical canon can be seen more as formal acceptance of the humanist educational program, since classical literature is interpreted in a highly selective manner and its moral criterion (the only acceptable texts are those that do not represent moral danger for the students) remains excessively abstract. Be that as it may, the canon is articulated as a repertoire of stylistic and rhetorical models, thus restricting and preventing potential doctrinal deviations or transgressions: Spare no effort, considering it to be of the utmost importance, to ensure that our schools refrain completely from works by poets or from anything whatsoever that may damage the integrity and good behaviour of the students, unless all indecent words and elements are previously expurgated; if, however, the texts cannot be expurgated at all, like Terence, for example, it is better that they not be read, so that the topics cannot offend the purity of the student’s soul. (Gil 1992, 85)

Although their guiding ethos is only implicit and not fully articulated, it is nonetheless possible to identify some basic conceptual dichotomies in the quis libris legendi formula. The most significant of these conveys the idea of the opposition between “good” and “bad books”, and is omnipresent in all educational treatises. “Good authors” are compared to “bad books,” which are frivolous, indecent, impure, or heretical. The problem is that the even these formulas do not give much insight into the principles that determine the way the canon was constituted. Their

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motivations are more apparent when they concern doctrinal issues. The heretical book must be condemned because it contradicts the principles of true faith. In addition to “heretical texts”, censorship of “bad book” involves many other genres and categories, including lascivious texts, but also chivalric romances and fiction in general, for their lack of verisimilitude, which could, according to the critics, undermine the ontological status of the truth. From this point of view, references to the ethical value of the approved authors are extremely vague and ambiguous, with very few specific criteria.

Nourishing the spirit: metaphors of reception Early modern discourse tends to adopt only indirect ways of defining modes of interpretatio and other discursive phenomena. By being organized primarily around the act of reading, the shaping of the curriculum also seems to be characterized by the same absence of specific categorical definition. However, the fact that there are no explicit guidelines does not mean that there are no elements to clarify the deepest intentions behind the selection of suitable books. It is possible, in fact, to identify discursive instruments that make up for this absence and reveal ideological and doctrinal interests beyond the quis libri legendi. Renaissance texts generally refer to most textual operations using metaphor and analogy; instead of devising precise or explicit descriptions or definitions, they tend to establish similarities and parallels and to make comparisons and analogies. One of the most important characteristics of these discursive instruments is their persistence and recurrence, their longevity and universality (they seem to emerge in all national contexts of European Humanism). In short, the institutiones and the rationes studiorum found metaphor and analogy to be some of the most powerful and dynamic conceptual instruments available to them, and they tended to construct their discourses around them. It should be added that most of this textual imagery, which originated in the classical tradition, was transmitted uninterruptedly throughout the Middle Ages and adopted later by Renaissance texts, which no doubt contributed to its being so deeply rooted in and assimilated by theoretical discourse. The set of images that describe the operations of reading, interpreting, and assimilating texts – and hence also the constitution of the canon – is built upon a limited number of thematic models that transfer categories associated with the body into actions of the spirit. The central analogy postulates that the text is to the soul what food is to the body, meaning that the assimilation of a text is perceived as being equivalent to the processes of feeding and digestion; the text becomes spiritual nourishment and its digestion refers to its being “appropriated” (an almost physical “ingestion” of the written word) by the reader; it implies, moreover, that it is transformed into matter that is not foreign to the reader’s body. Described in these terms, the imagery associated with food and nutrition emerges in the Latin classical tradition – it appears in Seneca’s letters and Quintilian’s Institutiones – and evolves (through patristic, medieval and Renaissance sources), into a complex discourse that adapts and rewrites the classical notions, but without modifying their basic referents. In short, these images illustrate the proper reception of the text, whereby what has been read is converted into something that becomes part of the reader’s nature. “All that is read shall be transformed, like food, into the blood and nerves of the discourse; it should become part of one’s body,” claims Gonzalo Pérez de Ledesma (1985, 55) in Censura de la elocuencia (Criticism of eloquence, 1648),

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a treatise on sacred oratory. Well into the seventeenth century, the simile of digestion conveys the idea of the complete and profound assimilation of the text, as shown in the following extract from Baltasar Gracián’s El Discreto (The discreet, 1646): He spent the third stage of this wonderful life, the greatest and the best, in meditating on all he had read and seen. Everything that enters this emporium of the soul through the gateway of the senses, pauses first at the customs post of the mind; there, everything is being inspected. The mind weighs up, judges, considers, infers and extracts the quintessence of truth; swallows first by reading, devours by seeing, chews on it by meditating, breaks things down, disentangles them, uncovers truths, and the spirit feeds on true wisdom. (Gracián 2001, 197)

In the classical tradition, the imagery of food initially fuelled debates about the exact nature of imitatio. It referred basically to composed creative imitation and sustained in symbolical form the classical idea of literary composition as based on previous readings. This was the original referent for images related to the ingestion and digestion of the model text, and this particular meaning was also perpetuated in later tradition. Simultaneously, however, the same symbolical representation became a kind of authoritative imperative, regulating all aspects of the correct reception of the text. In other words, it took on a normative character; it not only laid down the forms in which the classical authorities, in particular, should be mediated, that is to say, by determining how they should be appropriated, but also dictated which authors should be assimilated. It set out, in short, the questions of the quis libri legendi and laid the foundation for the shaping of the canon. The following passage by Pérez de Ledesma is illustrative, since the author claims that unless spiritual nourishment is based on approved authors, it will lead to indigestion: We will discuss later of how to employ loci [commonplaces] with moderation […]. These ideas shall be digested to become the essence of speech. […]. However, “scholars of the stomach” do not digest, but rather vomit up ideas with disgusting retching, in the same way that they swallowed them. (Pérez de Ledesma 1648, 79)

It should be noted that food imagery prescribed not only which interpretative formulas to apply to “good” book, but also the opposite, generating its own antitheses, creating its own metaphorical inversions, so that reading unapproved books is analogous to the ingestion of a venom that can poison the reader. Juan de Mariana, author of one of the most important treatises on the education of the nobility in the seventeenth century, De rege et regis institutione (On the king and royal institution, 1599), warns against lascivious and obscene poets, who can be very pernicious to the education of the young prince, because the poison in their elegant style may confuse souls that have not been prepared for it: You should not forget the poets either. Learn to admire the genius and the elegant abundance of the words of Virgil; take delight in the sharp and refined phrases of Horace. The only thing that should be kept from the eyes and ears of the prince are those poets who can corrupt good habits by recalling lascivious or indecent themes, and those that are obscene and presumptuous, even if they write with much elegance and tenderness. Unfortunately, these writers abound and can cause great harm if attention is paid to them. The poison of lascivious verses quickly takes over our souls; wrapped in elegant or delicate forms, it wounds the soul before a remedy can be thought of. If the great philosophers have advised that paintings that may excite the misguided appetites of young people be kept out of their sight, shall we not say the same in regard to obscene verses? (Mariana 1981, 180)

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What we can safely conclude from the poison imagery is that the foundational metaphors for bad books tend to revolve around the ideas of infection and corruption; in fact, the notion of contamination runs through all the similes used for bad books, since they all refer back to the same underlying argument used to discredit bad reading: the danger of contagion through contact with vice. Paradoxically, the infectious potential of the written word also provides the conceptual basis for transforming the pernicious text into something that can be tolerated, namely, the notion of the text as an amalgam, a body in which infected members coexist with those that are still whole and undamaged. If the danger lies in the fusion of the good and bad elements, the solution for ethically responsible reading lies in the careful selection of texts, and strictly in accordance with the idea of contamination, expurgating them or properly adapting them, as we deduce from the following words of Cristóbal de Villalón (1997, 223): “We shall learn how to take advantage of the pagan works, because they truly abound in sentences and healthy doctrine […]; we shall not follow nor look at their lust, avarice, ambition and superstitions; rather shall we imitate the good things they possess”. The purification of the text is, in turn, almost always understood from a doctrinal perspective, because the canon was shaped in accordance with the purpose of moral edification. When Gaspar de Astete, for example, urged the expurgatio of classical texts, he referred to the Jesuits, who were well-known for their censorship of classical texts used in their schools: “Or at least they must first be expurgated and purified as some have been through the diligent efforts of certain Fathers of the Society of Jesus, so that young people can adopt their eloquence without drinking the poison that is also contained in them” (quoted in Gagliardi 2004, 165). In order to adapt different texts to Catholic orthodoxy, the Jesuit ratio laid down their harmful parts be rigorously expurgated, chiefly lascivious passages (for example, Book 4 of the Aeneid was excluded because of its erotic nature). Texts with perspectives that were not strictly pedagogical also prompted expurgation, particularly of pagan books with their doctrinal errors and fallacies. A case point is Coloquios matrimoniales (Dialogues on marriage, 1550) by Pedro de Luján, who recommends adapting pagan texts in accordance with good doctrine, assimilating Christian elements only and avoiding the harmful ones: Julio: “Children should not spend their time reading bad immoral books except those from which some doctrine and example can be obtained, because reading dirty books panders to a dirty life.” Hipólito: “Do they not, during their studies, read Ovid, Terence and other books that deal with love?” Julio: “That is true, but it does not mean it is right, and it should not be done, since there are many good and holy books that can be read, like Cicero, Boethius, and Sallust; but when I read these books, I discard their bad sentences and try to imitate their good Latin: I do what we do with the ancient philosophers: we condemn their misguided beliefs and approve their good doctrine.” (Luján 1990, 255)

In conclusion, debates about the curriculum concentrated on outlining the “good readings” (especially those regarding the pagan classics). In this indirect way, the imagery associated with processes of reception became the driving force of the quis libri legendi. Renaissance methodology devised specific techniques for the proper digestion of the text, and all of them show that

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the notion of assimilation, together with all the formulas for interpretation and exegesis, were regarded not only as the in-depth appropriation of the text by the reader, but also as its transformation and adaptation to all-encompassing doctrinal and ethical principles.

Formulas of mediation: Ars excerpendi One of the most characteristic methods for studying and assimilating approved authors – the technique of excerpta – corresponds to the discursive ideal of copia (that is, the idea of an abundance of textual material for purposes of style and argumentative amplificatio). The methodology of excerpere consists of making personal annotations while reading, and then classifying – or digesting – them; it is, therefore, precisely the metaphorics of reception that helps create a method whose objective is to properly metabolize literary models. According to theorists of the ars excerpendi (as set out in particular manuals as well as educational institutiones and guidebooks of rhetoric), to make excerpta – or digests – , the reader should choose the most memorable and significant passages, together with elements of particular rhetorical value – maxims, similes, and commonplaces – and systemize them in a pre-determined order. The practice of excerpere prompted the creation of printed compendia (commonplace books, collections of exempla, sayings, maxims, etc.), although teaching manuals concentrated on the production of the student’s handwritten notebooks. These exercise books served a clear didactic purpose, because the student used them to collect material that was interesting from a linguistic, argumentative or ethical point of view, in order to organize it later into relatively standardized categories (usually, commonplaces), so that it could be quickly and easily located and reused when the need arose. In his El estudioso de la aldea (Scholar from the village, 1568), a collection of recommendations and warnings produced for those who wanted to have an education but lived too far away from the towns and cities for them to have direct access to it, Lorenzo Palmireno enthusiastically urged students to keep a notebook or commonplace book, in which to write down all memorable sentences and passages. He also recalls two of the foremost contemporary models, Erasmus’s Copia and Vives’s method as presented in De ratione studii puerilis (On the correct method of instruction for children): “No matter how lazy the student, he should keep a book to write down everything that pleases him: they call it the Codex excerptorius, a book of proverbs or notebook. It is the key to doctrine, an aide-memoire and, in short, you cannot be without it. At the end of Copia rerum, Erasmus gives some very good examples per locos communes; although for children, Luis Vives is more suitable” (Palmireno 1568, 132). In a section called “Plática sobre el Cartapacio” (On the notebook), Palmireno analyzes in some detail the processes associated with excerpting when reading, which is considered as a didactic method in itself: “Many complain that they do not know how to set about studying,” states Palmireno. He then describes the process of reusing – in the form of word-for-word quotations or less explicit paraphrases – the collected material, since “when they wish to exploit in conversation what they have read, they become confused.” Excerpta constitute a way of imposing “order on studies,” to which the “child [should become] accustomed” by making his own notebook and classifying the annotationes:

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I say then that Luis Vives tells us to take two quires of paper, or a quire and a half: and, making them into a book, we divide the sheets in such a way that each little topic has a certain number of pages […]. And so that you understand it better, I will comment on what Vives says, according to the order mentioned above. All the scholars I know maintained this order; principally Doctor Pedro Jaime Esteve, because the two of us discussed what we had written down every month: and he had a specific book for Greek authors and another for Latin ones, and yet another one for Medicine. The man who bought them is a fortunate man; when they organized an auction after his death, I was in Zaragoza. (Palmireno 1568, 135)

Classification usually involved sorting the collected material into some kind of rank order, or hierarchy. It implied making a distinction between the sphere of the particular, which was not suitable for annotation, and universal categories, the true domain of annotationes (by being translated into the student’s own words, however, the excerpta paradoxically recuperated the status of the particular). This operation of selection, classification, and rank ordering is linked to the epistemological ideals of proper eruditio because, in the end, the ars excerpendi entails reducing all knowledge to a manageable textual quantity; the act of excerpere, in fact, is nothing less than a powerful and fairly productive gnoseological instrument. Most importantly, as far as the curricular debates are concerned, the proliferation of these collections, commonplace books and florilegia during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries bears witness to the fact that early modern authors assimilated the classical literary heritage in a mediated, frequently secondary way. To sum up, the compilatory genres, based on the idea of copia and techniques for excerpere, considered the digestion of model-texts as one of the supreme formulas of the teaching methodology. At the same time, they placed emphasis on the need to organize and grade the collected material (usually classified according to loci communes of an ethical nature), so making reception subject to moral and doctrinal principles.

Perfecting life by reading The frequent criticism of commonplace books and florilegia by theorists of the 1600s and 1700s corroborates the fact that readers turned to collections that offered classical texts in a digested form, rather than address the ancient auctoritates directly. Hence, despite advocating focusing on the pure water of the classics, the humanist canon was largely based – at least in its practical application – on second-degree mediation. This, however, is not the only limitation concerning the reception of the ancients. Metaphors of the act of reading and interpretatio also refer to one of the crucial dilemmas of Renaissance pedagogy, namely that the cornerstone, the very centre of the ideal of eruditio and of the studia humanitatis as a whole – the Greco-Roman tradition – was actually radically alien to them from a doctrinal and religious point of view because of its pagan nature. Early modern theorists attempted to resolve this difficulty by defining reading (along with the process of assimilation of the ancients) as the road to virtue, an act that entailed critical moral decisions and specific defensive strategies. One of those strategies consisted of focusing on the proper use of the text, rather than examining its potentially dubious character, a practice that was quite effective when it came to incorporating into the canon works that were ambiguous from the perspective of religious orthodoxy. Nonetheless, it did not mean that doctrinal criteria were not complied with or acknowledged. On the contrary; it required strict adherence to ethical

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doctrine by stating that all reading, if done properly, can be a beneficial learning exercise for the Christian student. Cristóbal Suárez de Figueroa in El Pasajero (The passenger, 1617), a dialogue satirizing certain aspects of seventeenth-century Spanish life, follows ethical doctrine when he recommends, “the reading of approved authors” for the “idleness characteristic of those who consider themselves nobles,”, “in any spare moments from your unavoidable duties,” (Suárez de Figueroa 1988, 620). His dialogue is directed at an uneducated public (those who “do not speak Latin”), and suggests, among other “virtuous” titles, books from which “you may derive the most use,” devotional works in particular: In the lives of the saints, you will find much recreation, because, along with the explanations of many passages from Scripture, they narrate the lives of the righteous with elegance. The lives of the martyrs, in particular, will show you how to live as true Christians. Their perseverance will leave you enthralled and make you willing to suffer and endure, for Christ and his faith, all life’s trials, sorrows and tribulations, not only with patience, but also with love and happiness, determination and joy. (Suárez de Figueroa 1988, 620)

In addition to popular devotional works, Suárez de Figueroa also invites the reader to “read other authors, modern and classical.” However, anticipating all possible discussions about their suitability, he allows only good books that “deal with all important matters for perfecting your lives.” In short, he always considers the potential suitability of a text in terms of its moral benefits. He recommends studying the historians, because they familiarize students with the virtues of prudentia: “Take up the historians, from whose writings you will emerge skillful and judicious. Herodotus, Livy and Tacitus all have a good reputation. Do not forget the life of Plutarch and the commentaries of Caesar” (Suárez de Figueroa 1988, 620). He approves reading Seneca’s works for his stoic virtues: “Become a great friend of Seneca, because he will show you how to be steadfast and constant, in good fortune or bad” (Suárez de Figueroa 1988, 620). Significantly, his guidelines and admonitions are strictly opposed to the genres of fiction. Consequently, while historians and philosophers teach students to tread the true path to virtue, chivalric novels and other pernicious genres fill their heads with shallow and immoral dreams: “These lessons and others like them will lead you to contentment and comfort, unlike those taught by the Amadises, Phoebuses, and Orlandos: dreams, profanities, lies and madness” (Suárez de Figueroa 1988, 620). Be that as it may, we should also consider the shaping of the canon in relation to the broader social and historical context of the studia humanitatis. By placing classical eruditio – to be recreated in all its literary and cultural breadth – at the very core of their educational program, humanists felt obliged to defend the whole corpus of Greco-Roman texts against the previous standards of scholasticism. Their ability to successfully compete with other intellectual projects was, in fact, vitally necessary to them, since it meant, in practice, that they could gain access to positions as university teachers, as well as tutors or personal secretaries to the nobility. Grafton (1997, 147) would say, in his context, that Latin texts represented the “keys to the kingdom of social power.” Consequently, humanists developed particular ways of defending classical literature that were clearly directed at preserving the cultural status quo and were expressed as “one of the great crusades of early humanism […in] the defence of the reading of pagan poets against religious philistines who charged the poets with morally corrupting effects” (Hankins 1991, 10). The importance that the humanists attributed to apologies of the virtues and wisdom of ancient authors is conveyed not only in explicit statements, but also in their constant effort to “bowdlerize, Christianize and otherwise control the perception readers could form of the pagan classics”

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(Hankins 1991, 14). Constraining and controlling interpretation was essential, precisely in order to avoid or anticipate possible deviations in the understanding of pagan texts that might call into question their suitability for Christian readers and, by extension, the general appropriateness and validity of the studia humanitatis. In my opinion, they found this ideological instrument in their constant references to the moral qualities of a text and especially, in the possibility of interpreting any kind of written text in a beneficial and edifying way. Nevertheless, the concept of edifying reading in itself, along with the idea of the liberal arts as the path to virtue, should not be viewed merely as an effective strategy for understanding a doctrinally alien culture. Ideological motivations aside, we should not doubt the fact that the structuring of the canon was based on genuine moral convictions. The oft-repeated maxim that books illuminate the way of the righteous life and teach the road to virtue is indeed determined by the idea that all contact with the written word should be articulated as a moral act. This line of argument is based on the belief that virtue can be learnt. Erasmus, for example, often recalls dictum Homines non nascuntur, sed finguntur in his pedagogical works, precisely in order to vindicate his own pedagogical program. The classical authors had already expressed this correlation between lectio and the moral education; elements of patristic thought were incorporated later and it became a fundamental part of Christian intellectual dogma, so to speak. Medieval students also used texts that communicated virtue from the canon of auctores, whose linguistic, stylistic and moral values were greatly appreciated (Grendler 1989, 111-17). This conviction shaped an almost perfect analogy, at least in theory, between the curriculum and the course of the student’s life, bearing in mind that school texts were to a considerable extent the main instrument used in the individual’s education. In short, the notion of moral reading represented the  – largely unconscious – substratum from which the whole body of Renaissance pedagogy emerged, and went back to an ancient exegetic tradition that laid emphasis on the moral content of the text. The literary canon was therefore determined by criteria that went far beyond strictly pedagogical concerns. Consequently, although the studia humanitatis were perceived as the direct legacy of Classical Antiquity, they were in fact unable to assimilate the extraordinary cultural and textual richness of the latter. They were compelled to narrow down the potential multiplicity of meanings via the proper selection of permitted auctores, and, in the case of doctrinally controversial texts, channel their interpretation towards authorized and acceptable readings. This operation significantly diminished the extent and richness of the curriculum: it not only conditioned its structure (limited to “approved authors”), but also the modes of reception of “good books”. The humanist modus legendi, and with it, the canon, is based on rhetorical and linguistic analysis, but it bears the imprint of a different, higher order, since it looked to ethos for the basic component, even if it meant sacrificing multiplicity of meaning.

Translation in diaspora Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century David Wacks Introduction In 1492, when the Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella gave their Jewish subjects the choice between conversion to Catholicism or expulsion, many Sephardic Jews opted to leave their homeland, relocating to North Africa, the Ottoman Empire, or Western Europe. With the Expulsion, the Sepharadim (I will use the Sephardic pronunciation of the Hebrew plural Sefaradim — sing. Sefardí — instead of the Anglicized Ashkenazi pronunciation, “Sephardim”), who had always identified as a people living in diaspora from their Biblical homeland, now found themselves in a second diaspora from their native land where their ancestors had lived since before Roman times. Spanish, their native language they once shared with the Christian majority, became a diasporic Jewish language spoken alongside Turkish or Arabic or Dutch. As elsewhere in Europe, Africa, and Asia, Jews in Spain considered themselves to be living in diaspora, descendants of those Israelites who were exiled from Judea first by the Babylonians and subsequently by the Romans. Their religious and literary culture expressed a diasporic consciousness. As Spaniards or Iberians they shared many of the aesthetic and cultural values of their Christian neighbors; as medieval Jews they understood their own history along prophetic lines: they were chosen to suffer the pain of exile, to keep God’s law until the arrival of the Messiah. Sephardic poets such as Judah Halevi wrote passionately of returning to Zion (Scheindlin 2008), but at the same time these poets were also natives of the Iberian Peninsula, speakers of Spanish and other Romance dialects, and aficionados of local troubadour poetry, knightly Romances, folktales, and ballads. These two diasporas, from the Holy Land and from Spain, would “echo back and forth” in the Sephardic imagination (Boyarin & Boyarin 1993; Clifford 1994, 305). This double diaspora gave rise to a new historical consciousness formed in the crucible of Spain’s imperial expansion and tinged with a new messianic urgency brought on by the massive changes afoot in the early modern Mediterranean: Protestantism, print culture, increasingly sophisticated trade networks, and the expansion of Spain’s empire into Western Europe, North Africa, and beyond. For centuries before their expulsion from Spain (1492) and Portugal (1497), the Sepharadim, or Jews of the Iberian Peninsula, had long used literary translation and adaptation as a way of mediating between the subculture of their minority religious community and the culture of the dominant Islamic and later Christian majority. In al-Andalus, Hebrew poets famously adapted Classical Arabic literary models in Hebrew, producing what are now considered the classics of Hebrew literature (Drory 2000b). Under Christian rule, the prestige of Andalusi literary culture continued exercise considerable influence on Jewish intellectuals such as Judah al-Harizi, who first translated the Arabic maqamat of al-Hariri into Hebrew before penning his own work in that genre, the Tahkemoni (al-Harizi 2001). The teams of translators working under Archbishop Raymond in the twelfth century and King Alfonso X in the thirteenth included several Jewish translators who rendered Arabic texts into Castilian (González Palencia 1942; Burnett 1994; Márquez Villanueva 2004, 179; Roth 1990, 58). Later, in the fifteenth century, Jewish and converso doi 10.1075/chlel.29.30wac © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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authors worked to translate texts from classical antiquity into Castilian, Catalan, and Hebrew (Roth 2002, 186; Round 1993). Here I will discuss three translations from Spanish to Hebrew made in the sixteenth century by Sephardic writers. All three originals are very well-known to students of Spanish literature: Fernando de Rojas’s Celestina (1499), Rodríguez de Montalvo’s Amadís de Gaula (1507), and Francisco López de Gómara’s Historia General de las Indias (General history of the Indies, 1552). Given the tremendous popularity of these works, the mere fact of their translation itself is perhaps not notable. However, when taken together as examples of diasporic cultural production of the Sepharadim, the Jews expelled from the Iberian Peninsula, we begin to see a different picture. Their translators sought to appropriate these texts and place them in the service of a Jewish literary culture, one whose values were often at odds with those of the original authors and readers of the Spanish originals. At the same time, the Sepharadim were deeply identified with Iberian vernacular culture, and these translations were a form of cultural capital upon which they traded in the broader Jewish context of Western Christendom and the Ottoman Empire. The lens of diaspora can help us to better understand Sephardic translation from Spanish to Hebrew by focusing on the significance of language use, cultural identity, and Jewish literary culture in the sixteenth century. I would like to begin by discussing the concept of diaspora and what it means for cultural production, then touch on the significance of the Sephardic diaspora from the Iberian Peninsula for our reading of these translations, then discuss the translations themselves, giving textual examples of how the translators brought these texts over from a national, imperial literary discourse in Spanish to a Jewish, diasporic literary discourse in Hebrew.

Diaspora Diaspora is a Greek word that describes the broad scattering of a people as if they were seeds scattered across several furrows in a field. In its original usage it described the colonization of people dispersing from metropolis to colonies in order to reproduce imperial authority in conquered lands. In the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible it came to mean the dispersion of the Jews from Zion throughout the Mediterranean and Middle East. Since then it has come to be applied to range of historical scatterings: African, Indian, Chinese, Armenian, and others. Ultimately diasporic culture is a discussion about Here (the hostland) and There (the homeland). What did we take with us from There? What are we doing with it Here? When (and under what circumstances) are we going back There? And what happens when history conspires to make Here a new There? Or, as the anthropologist James Clifford puts it, “whatever their eschatological longings, diasporic cultures are not-here to stay. Diaspora cultures thus mediate, in a lived tension, the experiences of separation and entanglement, of living here and remembering/ desiring another place” (1994, 311). Jewish thinking about Diaspora (Hebrew galut or “exile”) is eschatological and providential. The dispersion from There to Here is not merely a story of human action; it is divine plan. It accepts as a given two prophetic ideas: the first, that the Jewish dispersion from Zion is divinely ordained, and the second, that their eventual return will announce the coming of the Messiah. These ideas, however, do not always correspond to the lived reality or material aspirations of

Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century353 historical medieval and early modern Jewish communities, whose fortunes are defined more by political vicissitudes and internal politics than by Messianic considerations real or imaginary. The question of galut does, however, play an important role in the literary practice of the Sepharadim, and to a certain extent the translations we examine here bear witness to both aspects: the historical reality and the diasporic imaginary. For purposes of articulating a theory of double diaspora that spans pre- and post-1492 Sephardic culture, I find most productive the approach of Khachig Tölölyan (2007), who has written extensively on the Armenian diaspora. He proposes a paradigm of diasporic culture based on the following elements: 1. 2. 3. 4.

a collective mourning for a trauma that shapes cultural production in diaspora preservation of elements of the culture of the homeland a rhetoric of turning and re-turning toward the homeland (but not necessarily an actual repatriation) a network of diasporic communities that are characterized by difference between each other and over time

Tölölyan’s formulation respects the power of the symbolic homeland while still being sensitive to the dynamism and emergent nature of social systems in diaspora. Whereas traditional Jewish scholarship writes of a “return” to the homeland, whether real or imagined, Tölölyan writes that diasporic people “turn and re-turn” toward the homeland while recognizing that they maintain dynamic attachments to both homeland and hostland. For him, “the diasporic community sees itself as linked to but different from those among whom it has settled; eventually, it also comes to see itself as powerfully linked to, but in some ways different from, the people in the homeland as well” (Tölölyan 2007). His approach is also compatible with this project because he seeks to draw connections between earlier and later diasporas, and in a broader sense to think about the social and cultural processes that obtain in diasporas as analogous to emergent forms of culture that grow from other transnational, globalizing experiences where identification with a nation state competes with other forms of identification: at its best the diaspora is an example, for the both the homeland’s and the hostland’s nation-states, of the possibility of living, even thriving in the regimes of multiplicity which are increasingly the global condition, and proper version of which diasporas may help to construct, given half a chance. The stateless power of diasporas lies in their heightened awareness of both the perils and the rewards of multiple belonging, and in their sometimes exemplary grappling with the paradoxes of such belonging, which is increasingly the condition that non-diasporan nationals also face in the transnational era. (Tölölyan 1996, 7–8)

Engagement with theories such as Tölölyan’s can be a corrective to the shortcomings of traditional approaches to the study of the Jewish diaspora(s), and in particular to the Sephardic diaspora. Theories of non-Jewish diasporas begin with the premise that diasporic cultures are a product of human actions and mundane material and social conditions that in turn generate symbolic, religious, or spiritual narratives. As such, they can help the scholar to respect the historical specificity of individual Jewish communities or individual Jews in their diasporicity, rather than attempt to adduce them to a broad collective diasporic consciousness that unites all Jews everywhere. With that, I would like to discuss the Sephardic diasporic difference and how it can help us better understand the signifcance of Sephardic translation from Spanish to Hebrew.

David Wacks

354 The Sephardic case: Double diaspora and translation

Double diaspora is a term that refers to a group that has gone through two successive diasporas. Critics have applied it to a number of different populations and a range of experiences of migrations and transnational itineraries. New examples continue to emerge (Alkalay-Gut 2002, 459; Gabriel 2004, 28–29; MacLean 2010; Nguyen Thi Lien Hang 1995; Parmar 2013; Gupta, Gupta, and Teaiwa 2007, 13; Pirbhai 2009, 75; Schwartz 2010). Sephardic Jews lived for well over 1,000 years in Spain. After their expulsion from Spain in 1492 they formed a new, second diaspora, throughout the Mediterranean and Europe, turning this time both to Zion and to Spain in their imaginations and longing for not one, but two homelands. What is the role of translation in diasporic cultural production? Diasporic populations are by nature multilingual. They typically use one or more diasporic languages brought from the homeland in addition to one or more languages of the hostland. It follows that translation across these languages would be an important part of their cultural life. And yet, despite the vast scholarship on disaporic culture, we have paid very little specific attention to the role translation plays in the cultural life of diasporic peoples. The bibliography on Jewish translation, while ample, does not approach translation from this angle (Singerman 2002). A good starting point for the discussion of translation in diaspora is the national context, since diaspora as a theoretical framework is often presented as transgressing or correcting the project of national languages and literatures. Khachig Tölölyan notes that diasporic cultures provide historical models of strategies for negotiating the “post-national” or “transnational” globalized world: “The stateless power of diasporas lies in their heightened awareness of both the perils and the rewards of multiple belonging, and in their sometimes exemplary grappling with the paradoxes of such belonging, which is increasingly the condition that non-diasporan nationals also face in the transnational era” (1996, 8). James Clifford argues that diasporic cultures can never “in practice, be exclusively nationalist. They are deployed in transnational networks built from multiple attachments” (1994, 307). More recent scholarship has cultivated this approach. For example, Allison Schachter’s study of modern Yiddish literature in diaspora promises “new avenues for theorizing the vexed relationship between modernism and national literary history” (2012, 15). Lawrence Venuti has written on translation as part of a nationalist cultural agenda. According to him, Foreign texts are chosen because they fall into particular genres and address particular themes while excluding other genres and themes that are seen as unimportant for the formation of a national identity; translation strategies draw on particular dialects, registers, and styles while excluding others that are also in use; and translators target particular audiences with their work, excluding other constituencies. (2005, 189–90)

Here we might substitute diasporic identity for national identity in our discussion of the Sephardic case, but Venuti’s observations are useful for our discussion of the Hebrew Amadís, Celestina, and Historia de las Indias in that the work of bringing over the text from one cultural setting to another is similar, even if the ideologies and structures of national and diasporic literary cultures differ. In both cases, there is a tension between the literary culture of the original and that of the translation, a tension the translator expresses, often in very direct and not particularly subtle

Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century355 interventions. A national literary culture draws boundaries, and there is a price for crossing those boundaries. Commenting on Victor Hugo’s observations, Venuti notes that Shakespeare’s French translator, Pierre Letourneur, needed to first abuse Shakespeare’s text in order to assimilate it to French literary culture: [Victor] Hugo remarks that “Letourneur did not translate Shakespeare; he parodied him, ingenuously, without wishing it, unknowingly obedient to the hostile taste of his epoch.” Letourneur’s decision to translate Shakespeare deviated from contemporary French literary canon, but his discursive strategy unconsciously conformed to them. (2005, 181)

Our translators Tsarfati, Algaba, and Hakohen are not working within the bounds of a national canon as was Letourneur, but they are working within a literary tradition that functions in similar ways as a national canon in the creation of a diasporic cultural identity. While Letourneur’s aim (at least according to Venuti) was to assimilate Shakespeare to the values of the French national canon, our Sephardic translators were doing something similar, appropriating the prestige and authority of Spanish best-sellers for a wider Jewish audience, one that the Sepharadim came to dominate culturally in many of the communities where they settled following their expulsion from Spain and Portugal. These Spanish to Hebrew translations, from a language of national and imperial culture into a diasporic language of learning, constitute a reappropriation of the text, an alignment with the values of the diasporic community. They were reauthorizing the works for consumption by the broader Jewish community, so their motives for translation were not to make the works in question intelligible to themselves, but rather to represent some version of Spanish or Sephardic culture to the broader Jewish world. In order to put this question in its historical linguistic context, a few words about language use in the Sephardic diaspora are in order. Spanish as a Jewish language Ladino or Judeo-Spanish, the vernacular of the Sepharadim, was not understood by most of its speakers as an enclave language, or as a stronghold of Spanish identity outside of Spain, any more than Yiddish was viewed as a German tradition. Both are understood as Jewish languages, and as a vehicle for Jewish, minoritarian discourse. It is difficult to say when Spanish made this transition from Iberian to Jewish language in the Sephardic perception, but there was certainly a period when it was understood — however problematically — as both. Henry Méchoulan, in his study of a Ladino text from a seventeenth century Sephardic text, Abraham Pereyra’s La certeza del camino (The certainty of the path), comments on this split valorization of Spanish as both the language of the Sephardic community, and of the Spanish state from which the Sepharadim were expelled and excluded: While the Jews of Amsterdam loathed the Spanish inquisition and celebrated its martyrs, their identification with Spanish culture appears in the relatively pure version of Spanish they used both in their religious worship and in their writings. To them (and to many Jews in Italy) Spanish was a “semi-sacred language.” As Menasseh ben Israel was to put it, it was the language of “my fatherland. (1987, 37 & 61)

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This example, as compelling as it is, cannot be taken as representative. At any given moment Sepharadim likely espoused a wide range of beliefs and practices regarding the use of Spanish and their personal and collective relationships with Spain and Spain’s current rulers. But the multivalence of the relationship, the ambiguity and tension in the valorization of Spanish and Spanish culture is a constant, and one that is worth thinking about as we take a closer look at the Hebrew translations of Celestina, Amadís de Gaula, and Historia General de las Indias.

Tsarfati’s Celestina Our first translation is, after Don Quixote, one of the most widely read and taught works of early Castilian literature: Celestina, first published in 1499. Fernando de Rojas, so the story goes, was a young law student in Salamanca when he sat down one spring break to polish a rough draft of a story of a dopey suitor, his earnest love object, and a wily old ex-prostitute named Celestina. By the beginning of term he had a final draft, and his Celestina went on to become a major bestseller, perhaps the first best-seller in Castilian (Whinnom 1980, 193). Rojas’s book — neither theater nor novel — was translated in short order into a number of other languages, and in 1506 an Italian translation by one Alfonso Ordóñez, a regular at the Papal Court, appeared in Rome. In the following year Joseph Tsarfati translated Rojas’s work into Hebrew. Tsarfati’s biography is the product of a culture where Jewish intellectuals were perhaps even more integrated to the literary life of the dominant culture than they were in Spain (McPheeters 1966, 399–402; Bonfil 1994, 153). Italian Jews accomplished this high level of integration by constantly mediating “through adoption, adaptation, and modification” (Stwo 2001, 68). The mere fact that Tsarfati, aka Galla (Tsarfati means “The Frenchman”), was on personal terms with the Pope himself, both as court physician to Julius II and Leo X and as host to Clement VII, who spent a few days living in Tsarfati’s house, tells us that this was a man who was not only welcome at court but must have exercised considerable influence (Carpenter 1997, 273). The fact that he was proficient in Latin likewise tells us a great deal about the extent to which he was integrated into the dominant intellectual culture (though as a court Jew in Papal Rome such knowledge of Latin is less remarkable than it was in, for example, Isaac Abravanel’s case in late fifteenth-century Spain). Latin was something approaching a state language in the Papal States. The fact that Tsarfati translated Celestina into Hebrew is also not particularly astonishing. Though it predates by nearly half a century the publication of Jacob Algaba’s Hebrew Amadís de Gaula and Joseph Hakohen’s Historia de las Indias, if any Castilian best-seller were to be considered for translation into Hebrew, Celestina was a natural choice. It was, we should remember, the most-printed work in Castilian of the sixteenth century (Whinnom 1980, 193). Our reading of Tsarfati’s translation is somewhat constrained by the fact that we do not actually have it. The body of Rojas’s work Tsarfati rendered into Hebrew is gone, and we have only Tsarfati’s introductory poem. What is most interesting about this poem is the way in which Tsarfati subtly locates Celestina in Sephardic literary history, doing the work described by Venuti in his discussion of Letourneur’s translation of Shakespeare. He authorizes Celestina for Sephardic audiences by emphasizing its continuity with medieval Hebrew books written by Sephardic authors and popular with early print audiences in the Sephardic world.

Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century357 In order to do so, Tsarfati must shift the readers’ focus away from the fascinating train wreck of a romance between Calisto and Melibea and onto the misogynous representation of Celestina herself, placing her in a tradition of literary go-betweens in Hebrew that depended heavily on classic tropes of misogyny. Michelle Hamilton notes that Tsarfati “underscores the misogynist aspect of La Celestina, backing it up with a series of misogynist images from the Judeo-Spanish go-between tradition” (2002, 332). For Tsarfati, the Celestina is about the wiles of women and the lengths to which they will go to deceive men and entrap them. This is hardly how one might casually summarize Rojas’s work. The hapless suitor Calisto goes to great lengths and no little expense to woo Melibea, who, at least at first, has little use for his attentions. If anything it is Calisto who is pursuing Melibea — quite the opposite of the picture Tsarfati paints in his introductory poem, where he sings of “cunning crones” who “lay their traps e’erwhere” (2002, 332). David and Solomon attest to you of women’s guile and bonds; In them reside angels of death, As well a devil and his throngs. Each day they carry off the sons Of men; all creatures they oppress. Escape their charms; discern their flaws, Polluted flesh in comely dress. (Carpenter 1997, 279, ll.39–41. Hebrew on Carpenter 1997, 280)

Tsarfati thus focuses the readers’ attention, predetermining the themes of the work as the base nature of women, the exemplarity of the protagonists as participants in a “war of lovers.” This he achieves by setting the stage for Rojas with a mixture of gender polemic expressed in martial Biblical language typical of medieval Hebrew gender narratives, the misogynous representation of the go-between character, and images of the traps and snares used by women to bind men. Tsarfati’s imagery here very specifically recalls two early twelfth-century Hispano-Hebrew works of misogynous narrative: Judah ibn Shabbeay’s Minhat Yehudah, Sone Hanashim (The offering of Judah the mysoginist), and chapter six of Judah al-Harizi’s Tahkemoni, that relates the story of a young man deceived by a wily old go-between (2002, 332). All of these tropes appear in the Castilian Celestina but none is of central importance as they are in Tsarfati’s poem. They are, however, central themes of a substantial body of misogynous narrative that flourished in Iberia, France, and Italy in the sixteenth century, and so Tsarfati’s poem is a bridge between Celestina and the broader misogynous literature in the vernaculars at the turn of the sixteenth century. This is a bridge built from blocks of medieval Hebrew narrative that were circulating in print editions alongside vernacular works giving voice to precisely the same misogynous tropes and imagery found in works such as the Castilian Corbacho (Little sermons on sin) of Alfonso Martínez de Toledo, the Catalan Somni (The dream) of Bernat Metge, or the French Quinze joies de mariage (The fifteen comforts of matrimony; Archer 2004) Through the Hebrew translation, Tsarfati is representing Rojas’s quintessentially Spanish fiction as quintessentially Sephardic as well. By framing his translation in the imagery and language of Sephardic literary tradition, he is laying claim to the work as a Sephardic work of literature. This is a great example of the dissonance that was common in Western Sephardic literary culture

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of Early Modernity. Sephardic authors were very strongly identified with the vernacular culture of their ancestral homeland but often politically antipathic to the Spanish crown and to Spanish society in general. Celestina is low-hanging fruit for such a readership. Rojas’s critique of the manners and sensibility of the nobility is quite plain (Severin 1989, 23–24; Kaplan 2002, 106–28). His send-up of the noble protagonist would likely appeal to readers alienated from the Spanish ruling class. As is well-known, Rojas himself was from a converso family. This is not to say that he was the bearer of any Jewish literary tradition — there is no evidence that he was at all knowledgeable of basic Jewish religion, let alone with difficult Hebrew literary texts. However, the discrimination and social scrutiny that were often the lot of educated conversos, and that fueled Rojas’s critique of the values of the ruling class, would have resonated with Sepharadim living in diaspora from Spain.

Algaba’s Amadís de Gaula Another Spanish bestseller that found its way into Hebrew was Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo’s chivalric novel Amadís de Gaula, translated into Hebrew by Jacob Algaba in Constantinople in 1554. The Hebrew Amadís is a significant cultural moment, a reappropriation of the values of the Spanish chivalric novel in an Ottoman Sephardic setting. It is a simultaneous deployment of Spanish culture as an engine of Sephardic prestige and a rejection of the imperial culture, substituting in its place a reading that reflects the values of a diasporic minority. In the face of the Sepharadim’s rejection from the Spanish imperium, Algaba’s Amadís duplicates aspects of Spanish cultural imperialism within Jewish communities of the Ottoman Empire. One common strategy of Algaba is to de-Christianize the text, removing references that might offend Jewish sensibilities (Armistead & Silverman 1965 & 1982, 138). It is noteworthy that in most of these cases he avoids substituting specifically Jewish terms or concepts. Algaba’s Amadís is the first major narrative work in a register of Hebrew that is largely free of the dense weave of shibbutzim, clever Biblical and rabbinical allusions that were characteristic of nearly every other work of Hebrew prose being published at the time. In Algaba’s translation, priests become laymen, oaths are secularized, and moralizing digressions (to which Montalvo was famously inclined) are simply omitted (Piccus 2004, 187). Most of these examples are superficial and predictable. When Amadís exclaims “Saint Mary!” Algaba substitutes “Long live my Lord the King!” (Rodríguez de Montalvo 1996, 235; Malachi 1981, 7). Montalvo has the Queen lead Amadís into her “chapel,” which Algaba renders as “chamber” (Rodríguez de Montalvo 1996, 276; Malachi 1981, 28). Elsewhere, Amadís comes upon a wounded knight in the road who asks to be taken to an hermitaño (anchorite) who might “tend to his soul,” which Algaba renders as “someone who might heal me” (Rodríguez de Montalvo 1996, 280; Malachi 1981, 29). Most of the examples of Algaba’s de-Christianization of the text are similarly predictable and routine, but some merit interpretation. When King Languines orders a traitorous woman burnt to death, Algaba instead has her thrown to her death from a high tower. His reluctance to depict her being burned may be out of respect to victims of the Spanish Inquisition. Instead he supplies a ready-made phrase from the Hebrew Bible describing the fate Jezebel meets as punishment for her sins. (Montalvo writes simply “mandóla quemar” [he ordered that she be burned], while

Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century359 Algaba moralizes a bit, drawing on the context of the Biblical allusion to the death of Jezebel [1 Kings 9: 30–37]: “‘Drop this accursed woman!’ And so they dropped her from a high tower and she died in all of her wickedness (b’rov rasha`tah)” [Rodríguez de Montalvo 1996, 301; Malachi 1981, 42].) An important part of the appeal of Montalvo’s Amadís was its representation of Arthurian chivalric manners and speech. Part of the fantasy that Montalvo was selling to his readers was to clothe the fictional chivalric hero in the courtly mores of Montalvo’s time, to blend in his protagonist the imagined courtly world of the knights errant of Arthurian imagination with the speech and courtly culture of the Spanish élite. This presented a particular problem for Algaba’s readers, who were likely unfamiliar with the European traditions of chivalric behavior common to both chivalric fiction and to the social life of the Western European upper classes. His challenge was to render Montalvo’s frequent representations of the chivalric imaginary intelligible to non-Sephardic Ottoman Jews while still retaining the cultural cachet and novelty of the world it represented to his readers. It stands to reason that non-Sephardic Jews, who had never lived in Christian Europe would be unfamiliar with the institutions and practices of chivalry that form the fabric of the social world of Amadís. You cannot, of course, trade on foreign caché that is totally incomprehensible to your audience. To this end Algaba tailors Montalvo’s references to the institutions of chivalry, social conventions, and courtly practices that may have fallen outside the experience of his non-Sephardic readers. As in the examples of de-Christianization, some such examples are superficial, but telling of differences of expectations of what “courtly” or “chivalric” might mean to non-Sephardic, Jewish audiences. A character named “la doncella de la guirnalda” (the damsel of the garland), so named because she always wore a garland of flowers to accentuate her beautiful hair, becomes in Algaba’s version the “damsel of the crown,” an accessory that ostensibly made more sense to the Ottoman readers to whom a garland of flowers might have seemed more rustic than elegant (Rodríguez de Montalvo 1996, 227; Malachi 1981, 1). Algaba likewise interprets the Spanish vocabulary of social rank for his Hebrew readers. When Helisena appeals to the honor of King Perión’s squire, she asks him if he is an hidalgo (nobleman of low rank); by this she means “are you an honorable individual with whom I can trust my secret?” Algaba preserves the equation of high birth and good moral conduct implied by the word hidalgo but his Helisena asks the squire “who are you and your family? Are they high born?” (me`olah, literally “superior” or “fine”) (Rodríguez de Montalvo 1996, 235; Malachi 1981, 7). In these ways, Algaba brings the world of Amadís and the discourse of Montalvo over into the Ottoman Jewish world, simultaneously demonstrating an affiliation with and resistence to the culture it represents.

Hakohen’s Historia de las Indias The Sephardic interest in chivalric feats of arms was matched by a curiosity about real-world conquests. In fact, the two are linked in the Sephardic imagination. In the introduction to his translation of Amadís de Gaula, Jacob Algaba notes that one may learn much about how the world works by reading about the lives and deeds of great kings, whether fictional or real (Rodríguez de Montalvo 1981, 2).

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During the first half of the sixteenth century, Jewish writers began to write chronicles and histories that recorded events of importance to Jewish communities: wars, calumnies, expulsions, and so forth. While some historians of Jewish culture have explained this apparently sudden interest in historiography as a reaction to the trauma of the expulsions from Spain and from various Italian city states, it was more likely simply a sign of the times (Bonfil 1988). In the age of print, exploration, and complex international trade networks, global politics and history were now part of the dossier of a good Jewish courtier or businessman. This is evident already in the historical writing of Isaac Abravanel, for whom history is not (contra Maimonides) a “waste of time,” but rather a natural activity for the elite of any nation. Every nation, he remarks, desires to know its past and to chart the passing of time through a reminiscence of kings and their deeds (Gutwirth 1998, 150–52). Joseph Ha-Kohen was an Italian Jew of Sephardic background and author of a number of secular histories in Hebrew. He was author of Chronicle of the Kings of France and of the Sultans of the House of Ottoman (Sabionetta 1553), and The Vale of Tears (1560). In addition he translated Francisco López de Gómara’s Primera y segunda parte de la Historia general de las Indias (First and second part of the general history of the Indies; Zaragoza, 1552) into Hebrew with the title Sefer Ha-’Indias Ferando Kortes (Sp. Libro de las indias de Fernando Cortés, Book of the Indies of Hernán Cortés, 1557) (León Tello 1989, 25–35). In the introduction to his Chronicles of the Kings of France and the Kings of the House of the Ottoman Turk, he writes that it is good to learn of the deeds of great kings against the Jews so that “the remembrance thereof not pass away from among the Jews; and the memory of our wrongs shall not come to an end” (Hakohen 1835, 2: xx). But the Hebrew histories of the sixteenth century were more than updated lamentations of Jewish suffering; they were guidebooks to a globalizing world that negotiated between imperial contexts. This increased interest in international affairs should come as no surprise given Jewish involvement in diplomacy and international trade. Neither should it surprise that the Jewish communities of the Mediterranean should have taken an interest in the Spanish conquest of the New World, and after Hakohen completed his chronicles of European and Ottoman history he turned his attention to that of the New World, bringing over into Hebrew the Historia general de las indias of Francisco López de Gómara, who published his second-hand account of the conquest of the Indies in Zaragoza in 1552. It was later decried as full of inaccuracies and overly rosy in its portrayal of the Spanish colonial enterprise, and particularly in its lionization of Cortés himself. Such objections notwithstanding, it provided readers with a detailed — if inaccurate — account of the geographic, political, and social realities of New Spain, by any measure an exciting and relevant topic of discussion in Spain and elsewhere. We must keep in mind that Hakohen’s Historia de las Indias appeared in 1557, five years after Fray Bartolomé de Las Casas’s Brevísima relación de la destrucción de las Indias (A short account of the destruction of the Indies, 1552) discredited López de Gómara’s history as a blatant fabrication meant to validate Spanish conquest in the New World. Hakohen’s treatment of Gómara’s work, in the spirit of Venuti’s description of Letourneur’s treatment of Shakespeare, amounts to a seemingly paradoxical, simultaneous de-authorization and appropriation of cultural capital. Why translate a work only to criticize and undermine it all the while? Moshe Lazar, the modern editor of Hakohen’s translation, notes that Hakohen embeds a critique of the Spanish colonial project similar to that voiced by Las Casas and Bernal Díaz del Castillo (2002, xxv). Hakohen editorializes liberally in his translation of the events narrated by López de Gómara, a strategy

Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century361 roughly converse to that of Jacob Algaba’s translation of Amadís de Gaula. Where Algaba omits the moralizing digressions that Montalvo applied liberally to the so-called “primitive” Amadís de Gaula, Hakohen overlays his own ideological program into his translation of Historia general de las indias, freely glossing and emending López de Gómara’s text to bring it in line with his own values and those of his audience. In one striking example, López de Gómara recounts the triumphant return of Christopher Columbus to the court of the Catholic Monarchs, where he is given a hero’s welcome. Gómara describes the coat of arms presented to the Genoese navigator, which he inscribes with a couplet celebrating his own achievements. Christopher Columbus put this inscription around the coat of arms that they gave him: For Castile, and for León. Columbus found a new world. (López de Gómara 2002, 22)

Hakohen, somewhat more critical of Columbus’s project, glosses the couplet, first reproducing it in Spanish (with a slight variant) in Hebrew letters, followed by a poem of his own composition: For Castile and for León Columbus found half of the world And I, Joseph Hakohen, composed the following, saying: For Castile, and also for León Colon found a new world But with the passage of the sun through the sky, they crossed into the Valley of Ayalon1 There he earned eternal fame For there he also found a colony Thus many nations were humbled In great reproach, contempt and dishonor, For this man crossed there, to become the mistletoe to their oak. (López de Gómara 2002, 20)2

Elsewhere he frankly contradicts López de Gómara’s version of events, offering a counterhistory to the hegemonic narrative of the Spanish original. For example, López de Gómara’s chapter on syphilis is plainly titled “Syphilis came from the Indies” (López de Gómara 2002, 36–37). He 1.

The Valley of Ayalon (Emeq Ha-ayalon) was where Joshua successfully called on God to stop the trajectory of the sun across the sky in order to afford the Israelite forces sufficient daylight to rout the Amorites: “Joshua addressed the Lord; the said in the presence of the Israelites: ‘Stand still, O sun, at Gibeon, /O moon, in the Valley of Aijalon!’/ And the sun stood still /And the moon halted, /While a nation wreaked judgment on its foes” (Joshua 10:12–13). The allusion is meant to describe a defeat so total that it seemed to be accomplished with divine assistance.

2.

Hakohen’s Hebrew is lehiyot mam’ir alon (literally ‘to be a briar of oak’), most likely a calque from the Italian vischio di quercia. The modern Hebrew for mistletoe is divkon (‘clinging’ or ‘adhering’ plant). I do not know of any other witness to Hakohen’s elocution. Mistletoe is a parasitic evergreen plant with green foliage and yellow berries that grows on oak trees. It may be the botanical inspiration for the golden bough that serves as Aeneas’ key to the underworld in the Aeneid (6:200–15). On the connection between the golden bough and mistletoe, see Frazer (1927, 703–04).

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explains that Spanish conquistadors contracted syphilis by having sex with indigenous women from the island of Hispaniola, then returned to Spain. Subsequently they traveled to Naples to fight the French, where they infected Italian women with the disease: The inhabitants of that island Hispaniola are all syphilitic. And as the Spanish slept with the Indian women they then became infected with syphilis, that most contagious disease that torments one with fierce pains. Feeling afflicted and not improving, many went back to Spain to recover, and others to conduct business, by which they infected many courtesan ladies who in turn infected many men who went over to Italy to the War of Naples on the side of King Ferdinand II, against the French, and there they spread their disease. (López de Gómara 2002, 36–37)

Without any comment, Hakohen turns this narrative completely on its head, substituting a very different epidemiology of the Columbian exchange that runs counter to López de Gómara’s official narrative. Hakohen’s chapter is titled “Syphilis is a French sickness, that the Spaniards brought from there, and they also brought the hordeolu (orzuelo, ‘stye’) illness” (Hakohen uses the Hebrew term holei ha-tavelei for the Spanish bubas). His version, reproduced below, differs considerably from that of López de Gómara: The Spaniards brought syphilis to Italy from the Indies when they went to Naples, in the year 1494. They slept with women, and French also slept with them, and syphilis shone [first] in their foreheads and in time ate half of their flesh. […] And the Spaniards also brought hordeolu (styes) and morbili (measles), which is called jidri in Arabic,3 and smallpox, which the inhabitants of that land had never seen before that day; and many thousands of them died of those two illnesses. Their time of their [death] warrant had come upon them then. (López de Gómara 2002, 30–31)

The contrast is dramatic. Hakohen reverses the trajectory of infection, returning the origin of the pestilence to Europe and backing up his version by adding details and citing medical authorities absent in the Spanish original. He is clearly at odds with López de Gómara, particularly as regards the morality of Spain’s colonial project. This hostility to Spanish conquest is hardly unique to Hakohen. We have noted the wellknown case of Las Casas. There were a number of Italian writers as well, the most prominent among them being Girolamo Benzoni, a Milanese whose bitter failures in his brief time in the new world engendered in him a vibrant hate of all things Spanish. Benzoni gives voice to this hatred unstintingly in his Historia del nuovo mondo, published in Venice in 1565, eight years after Hakohen finished his translation of López de Gómara (Collo & Crovetto 1991, 549–89). The difference between Italian and Sephardic critiques of Spanish colonialism is of course the intimate and conflicted relationship Sehparadim had with Spain. Like Algaba and Tsarfati, Hakohen appropriates the Spanish text, putting it into the service of his own literary sensibility and ideological program. Nonetheless, and as we have seen in all three cases, this gesture is complicated by the relationship between Sephardic authors and the Spanish literary culture they bring over into Hebrew.

3.

Jidri is Andalusi Arabic for smallpox. The Classical Arabic form is judari. It is interesting that Hakohen is familiar with the colloquial rather than learned form, which suggests that he learned it in discussion with an Arabic speaker, rather than from consulting an Arabic book or a Latin or Romance translation of an Arabic book (Corriente 1997, 91).

Sephardic Spanish-Hebrew translations in the sixteenth century363 When Sephardic authors write about Spain, or adapt works by Spanish authors, they are in a sense turning and re-turning toward Spain, but this symbolic orientation toward the diasporic homeland is different from the primary orientation toward the biblical Zionic homeland. It is not framed in terms of an eschatological trajectory toward redemption, except secondarily. That is, the Jewish sources do not officially privilege Spain as a homeland to be longed for. However, the cultural affiliation, the use of Spanish as a vernacular and as a literary language, and the strong attachment to the sense of Sephardic-ness that arose over the long Sephardic presence in Iberia all add up to a turning and re-turning to the Sephardic homeland that intertwines and alternates with the desire (if not the actual project) of eventual return to Zion.

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment On the imperial-colonial and Morisco-Basque mediations of the Spanish Enlightenment Joseba Gabilondo The canonical approach to the Spanish Enlightenment is based on only a few authors — Feijoo, Jovellanos, Torres Villarroel, etc. (see, for instance, Caso González’s 1983 list) — which always ends up with a negative assessment of an “insufficient” Enlightenment (Subirats 1981) in the Iberian Peninsula. In the most interesting and groundbreaking study of the last few years, and as a way out of this insufficiency, Alberto Medina has shifted the emphasis to new categories such as the multitude (in its opposition to the nationalist the people). This approach has had the benefit of politically reframing the negative constitution of the Enlightenment as a structure of exclusion. Yet both approaches, canonical and innovative, do not question the geopolitics — the “Spanishness” — of the Spanish Enlightenment and thus end up postulating a European Enlightenment synonymous with a rational modernity (Kant), thus ignoring the postcolonial critique of the Enlightenment (Eze), and, as a consequence, reifying the Spanish Enlightenment as negatively European. If the imperialist Spanish state seems like a failed enlightened project, which experiences a promising but ultimately failed moment of “true Enlightenment” under the rule of Charles III, then one cannot take the framework of the State and its (failed) project of an enlightened society as the departure point to analyze the Enlightenment in Spain and the Iberian Peninsula — which is always postulated as a precursor of a future nation by retroactively forgetting the colony on behalf of a postimperial metropolis magically void of a colonial condition. The framework itself must be questioned: a continental Spanish state, which is stripped of its imperialist and transoceanic dimension and a history that neglects to account for an earlier modernity in the sixteenth century. This framework already precludes any analysis from positing a truly historical “Enlightenment” that spans an imperialist and transoceanic reality that, in its heterogeneity, defies a simple protonationalist, north-European understanding of this history. This ahistorical approach equates north-European modernity with the Enlightenment and, thus, by default, disavows an earlier Hispanic modernity articulated in the sixteenth century vis-à-vis Islam and the Americas. In short, the adoption of an ahistorical, non-imperialist, continental Spanish state as the standpoint from which to analyze the Enlightenment is a historical mistake. It is a nationalist, presentist epistemological perversion: “yes, it is a failed project but just the same, it will be studied as if it were not.” The framework of the “failure” itself must be approached otherwise: it must be studied as historically otherwise. Here I will adopt an Atlantic and colonial approach, not just to “recenter” Spain in a wider geopolitical framework, but rather to do away with the ultimately presentist and nationalist idea of a “(failed) Spanish Enlightenment” and, consequently, to tackle a more heterogeneous geography and history that, although Hispanic and thus ultimately derivative of Spanish imperialism, does not allow for a non-problematic reconstitution of the nationalist ideology of a (failed) Spanish Enlightenment and, thus, an enlightened Spain. In short, I will proceed to reframe the Iberian Peninsula in an imperialist-Atlantic-colonial framework in order to problematize the doi 10.1075/chlel.29.31gab © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment365 idea of a single (yet insufficient) enlightened Peninsula and, instead, show the underlying nationalist ideology that legitimizes the latter. This approach will also permit me to advance a new critique of a European Enlightenment and modernity, so that the latter lose their superegotic status, against which Spain and the Iberian Peninsula are (negatively) reconstituted as missing the Enlightenment — and a modern Europe. Instead I will underscore the existence of two Iberian “Enlightenments.” The first is an imperialist-subaltern Enlightenment, which is the historical result of Spanish imperialism and is also differentially Morisco/Roma/Convert; this Enlightenment is appropriated by the aristocracy under the form of majismo, especially after one of the most important popular revolts of the eighteenth century: the Mutiny of Esquilache (1766). The second is a colonial-Atlantic Enlightenment, which is mainly Basque and aristocratic; it expands among elite circles of power in the Peninsula and across the Atlantic through the numerous economic and scientific societies founded following the original Basque model: Real Sociedad Bascongada de Amigos del País (1765; Royal Basque Society of Friends of the Country). The goal is to emphasize that these two Enlightenments do not share the same geography-history and therefore cannot be reduced to a single “Spanish Enlightenment,” in what amounts to a “colonial disavowal” of past (Morisco) and contemporary (Basque, Latin American) imperialist-colonialist practices. Moreover, the mediation of these two Enlightenments is carried by two discursive “genres” (a subaltern non-genre and a hegemonic genre) that must be read comparatively: the subaltern performance and the aristocratic essay. Pedagogically, it is convenient to underscore that the two main events that founded them take place within a year — 1766 and 1765 respectively. The imperialist-subaltern Morisco/Roma/Converso Enlightenment. On majismo and performance Spanish imperialist history in the Peninsula — the so-called “Reconquista” — has not been centrally connected, to this day, with the enlightened reality of the eighteenth century. After the expulsion of the last Moriscos in the seventeenth century, Spanish imperialism has always been equated with Atlantic colonialism (Latin America) as two sides of the same coin. Yet, the emergence of a “new” subaltern group called majo/as in the eighteenth century, which is central to the organization of the Enlightenment, begs a new examination of the history of Spanish imperialism in the Peninsula and its connection to the Enlightenment. The following will be a long but necessary detour through majo/a culture in order to archaeologically unearth the haunting centrality of Moriscos — the last conquered subjects to be assimilated or expelled — as well as the centrality of Spanish imperialism in the formation of the Enlightenment. During the reign of Charles III, the crown undertook several initiatives to regulate public space and the social practices that defined it. From street lighting to theater houses and bullrings, the crown attempted to enlighten the social body by ordering and regulating it. The goal was to exert a more precise control over the people. This new regulation of the social space and body was implemented by raising taxes on the general population. Yet, the increasing control and taxation boiled over when the government issued new regulations concerning the dress code — especially in connection with traditional festivities and the carnival. In 1766, the masses in the capital revolted against these new laws in what has been known as the Mutiny of Esquilache — the name of the prime minister who implemented these measures (López García 2006).

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Among the crowd, the most distinctive class was formed by the lower strata of the population, the subaltern group(s) known as majo/as. Their dress and appearance are as well-known and documented as their history and origins are unknown. Most authors, from Julio Caro Baroja to Rebecca Haidt, rely on theater written by the upper classes — most centrally the sainetes by Ramon de la Cruz — in order to analyze majo/a culture. A more historical account, which probably would have to be centered on police records, remains unexamined, as Caro Baroja had already realized back in 1980 (62). Thus, to this day, a detailed and comprehensive study of majo/ as and majismo has not been undertaken. After the Mutiny of Esquilache in 1766, the Spanish aristocracy in the court — spearheaded by the Duchess of Alba — appropriated the most differential practices and costumes of the majo/ as in order to create the cultural phenomenon known as majismo (Haidt 2011). In turn, this aristocratic majista or majophile culture, made famous by Goya’s paintings, served as the basis for Spanish nationalism in the nineteenth century, where the newly developed aristocratic taste for subaltern fashion and habits became the central axis of nationalist culture and representation, which were not so different from the English aristocratic appropriation of the attire and dances of the “bellicose” Scottish highlanders, especially after Walter Scott. The nobility’s majista turn represented a break with tradition. Until that point, the aristocracy favored French fashion, which, since Louis XVI, was prevalent in Europe and, in Spain, made room for the figure of the francophile dandy or sophisticated dresser known as petimetre (from the French “petit maître;” see Martín Gaite 1991, 52). If the Mutiny of Esquilache was the turning point for the aristocratic majista fashion, the fear raised by the French revolution (1789) among the Spanish aristocracy further strengthened this tendency (Martín Gaite 1991, 24). The centrality of subaltern majo/a culture in the new self-fashioning undertaken by the aristocracy had to do with the geopolitics of the crown’s enlightened project: most of the political and cultural figures entrusted with modernizing and enlightening the social body were French and Italian. From the castrato who popularized opera in the court (Farinelli) to the prime minister who implemented most of the reforms (Esquilache), many key figures in the court were foreigners. The majo/as, in so far as they were the subaltern group most removed from this foreign enlightened project and thus represented resistance in its otherness, also became the ultimate subject-supposed-to-be-Spanish — if we refashion the Lacanian “subject-supposed-to-know.” Simultaneously, because of the southern origins of majo/a culture, which was a result of an internal migration and displacement from the south to the center — in what Caro Baroja calls the Seville-Madrid axis (1980b, 77) — this culture represented the historical other of Spanish imperialism: Morisco/Roma/Converso culture and history. Rebecca Haidt (2011, 159) rightly points out that majo/a culture represents social abjection: the majo/a is neither citizen nor foreigner, neither working class nor rural peasant: Popular theater texts such as sainetes and tonadillas suggest that majos, “the most Spanish of trades” are more Spanish — that is, more representative of workers, migrants, poor, and undocumented people who constituted the majority of the urban population — in so far as they have less access to the privileges granted to owners of reputable name, property, and benefits. In this respect, majos are, to use once again Gómez Porro’s language, a “battalion without history and memory, which has made Madrid,” and whose diverse experiences in the capital were forged by the shared Spanish desire “to be somebody”

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment367 Following Gómez Porro, Haidt also notes that majo/a culture is without history and memory. Thus, according to her, only two marks of their history can be traced back, based on the social yet negative shape those marks have left: “The first [mark] is defined by the arrests and recruits for hard labor among the inhabitants of the periphery and slums; the second [mark] is defined by the ‘empty place’ implicit in the iconography of the dancing majos” (2011, 169). Yet, she concludes that ultimately those negative marks point to an unretrievable history and memory that disappears in social abjection: The inherent abjection of casticismo [“true” historical and national identity] is built upon the memoriless forms of the peripheral spaces, on the stages of what was considered as “indecent, impenetrable,” or unimportant. Majos’ Spanishness points to an essential part of the “pure” [castizo] identity: to be positioned vis-à-vis a past that perhaps can never be retrieved, and whose names have been transformed by displacement, integration, and adaptation. (Haidt 2011, 172)

However, I would add that this abjection extends to history and represents the positive, yet unsymbolizable substance of Spanish imperialist history: the trace of a Morisco/Roma/Convert culture that is supposed to have been erased and repressed in the earlier century, but returns in a ghostly fashion, to stand for the truth of Spanish imperialist history: the unfinished and ultimately failed nature of the Spanish empire as a technology of subjection and control of all its population. Haidt, although acknowledging the southern provenance of many majo/as, concludes that they have no specific geography and history: “However, majos of the Madridean entremés genre were not only of southern origin. They are, instead, characters who capture the ampler experience of the immigrant, which conforms the majority of the population in the capital” (2011, 160). Yet, Haidt shifts between representation and factual history/sociology of the majo/a and, thus, does not differentiate the social way in which representation, performance, and geography constitute a social continuum that, nevertheless, cannot be collapsed: the representation of the majo/as by aristocratic authors, the performance by the majo/as based on dance and neighborhood quarrels, and the geography of majo/as, which is not limited to Madrid but also encompasses SevilleCádiz-Jerez (Caro Baroja 1980b, 24). Moreover, most scholars of majo/a culture do not take into account that social representation works by what could be called, following Laclau, “the axis of equivalence.” Certain signifiers come to overtake and overdetermine the heterogeneity of a social class or group in its opposition to others. In short, even if there were majo/as from north of Madrid, for example, they would be subsumed under the axis of representational equivalence that points to the south. As Caro Baroja states “majos, in the first place, are slaves, like other people of the eighteenth century, to their attire. They hang on to a dressing ideal of their own, autonomous, but just as rigid as the one donned by the wig-wearing class” (1980b, 38). Moreover, there are no Basque majo/as, for example. Therefore, through a deconstructive or psychoanalytical archeology of the trace/mark, one can negatively track the history and memory of the majo/a, as class, as social group. As Caro Baroja claims: “The Madridean majo always forces us to look to the South. No majo value can refer to the North, to the old Castilian region. Even less so to the people of the Atlantic. The Madridean majo is incubated, no doubt, among the people hailing from la Mancha and Andalusia […] The Madrid-Seville axis is fundamental to understanding the life of Spanish folks in its essential features” (1980b, 77).

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The importance of the geographic arrangement of majo/a culture is also a result of the new organization of capitalism (primitive accumulation). As Martín Gaite explains, this is the moment when the older aristocratic and hierarchical paradigm of power, based on blood lineage, begins to be replaced by a center/periphery paradigm, whereby capitalist accumulation and wealth, rather than blood, becomes hegemonic, thus, creating a new social mobility defined simultaneously by geography and class: “The dichotomy of nobleman-plebeian was shifting towards a different scale of values, found in the opposition between provincial and city styles. Around these two poles were grouped, respectively, the traditionalists and the moderns” (Martín Gaite 1991, 39). Therefore the geographical configuration of groups is clearly imposed by the new class dynamics of the moment. To assert this genealogy, Caro Baroja follows a Jovellanos’s verse, in which majo/a culture is identified with Moriscos (1980b, 69). The said verses contain references to “the Short King” (Muhammad XII, also known as Boabdil, the last ruler of Granada) and “Arabesque” (“berberisco” or Amazigh) fashion: Do you see, Arnesto, that majo wrapped in seven Yards of pardomonte cloth, with sideburns Of three inches turning his face ugly, Meager, pale, dirty; leaning against The corner and stalking us with A slant and ephemeral look? But he, He is the natural grandchild of the Short King, If the small shirt, the wide pants, And the burnouse, worn not without care, Haven’t told you yet; if the thousand buttons With arabesque designs, which end up Lost on the edges of the doublet, Do not shout to you; the sash, the dagger, The harp, the lute, and the guitar Will sing it [to you]; there is no doubt about it. (1886, 221–222; my emphasis)

Caro Baroja, already in his essay Ensayo sobre la literatura de cordel, echoing Subirá, points out that “the Madridean majismo must have fed off the Andalusian one” (quoted in 1980b, 71). More recently, Timothy Mitchell and William Washabaugh, writing on flamenco, have best captured the relationship between the Southern origins of majo/a culture, its subaltern racial/ class formation, and the refashioning of Baroque culture. As Washabaugh (1996, 40) argues: Elsewhere, Muslims pretended to be Gypsies, and Gypsies, who usually eschewed agricultural labor, adopted the rural life style of Muslims. Little wonder that ethnic identities were vaguely and inconsistently defined during these centuries. Many persons resisted the monarchical efforts to centralize Spanish politics and to homogenize the Spanish nation during this period, though usually their acts of resistance were invisible, like the “hidden transcripts” of opposition described by James Scott. [….] With the Bourbon accession to the throne and with the attentions of the Spanish aristocracy turned towards Paris, the poor resisted by vaunting all things old and common thereby “inventing tradition” (in the sense described by Hobsbawm and Ranger). They refashioned themselves as majos, a majo being “a bold self-assured malapert” who more-or-less consciously rejected “the alien and overrefined fashions and behaviors of the upper classes of the early eighteenth century.”

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment369 Similarly, Mitchell, when stating the origins of flamenco and its relationship to majo/a culture, emphasizes the racial and class mix that, since the sixteenth century, became the subaltern, social origin of majo/as: “Not exactly the proletariat or the working class, to be sure, but a newly urbanized subproletariat composed of gitanos, moriscos, pícaros, slaves or ex-slaves, men or women banished from their communities by the Inquisition, forced laborers, and any offspring of interbreeding among those groups. In sum: the human debris of a de facto caste society” (Mitchell 1994, 64). To the class-race element of majo/a culture pointed out above, Caro Baroja also adds a historical component that points to the older Baroque logic of excess underlying their culture: “[T]he enlightened society produces the coldest neoclassicism…while the people oppose it and, instead, hang on firmly to the Baroque” (1980, 99). More specifically, Washabaugh explains the cultural refashioning of Baroque culture by majo/as in the eighteenth century in the following way: The seventeenth century, with its economic and political crises, witnessed a redoubling of political oppression. Throughout this tumultuous century, the oppressions as well as the resistances turned on artifice and irony. José Maravall portrays the politics of this century as a smokeand-mirrors affair, the epitome of a “seductive use of spectacle” in “a cynical festering of mass culture.” In the eighteenth century, the poor — and especially the Andalusian poor — embraced a resistant conservatism that, ironically, resembled the oppressive and coercive conservatism of the previous century. (1996, 40)

Finally, Caro Baroja adds the revelatory date of the “birth” of majo/a culture. The term is first noted in the 1734 Diccionario de autoridades (Dictionary of authorities). In short, if majo/a culture is eminently Baroque (and older) but it is noted only in 1734, one must conclude that majo/as represent the mutation of an older logic that has been erased and thus returns in a new fashion. In other words, majo/a culture is the enlightened refashioning of an older Baroque subject and culture, which has undergone an active erasure or repression. The lack of a clear etymological explanation of the term — which can hardly be derived from “mayo” (May), its most logical origin — further accentuates this erasure and ensuing refashioning. Even the most central musical genre of the majo/a culture, the seguidilla (Caro Baroja 1980b, 42–43), which is originally southern Castilian (Castilla-La Mancha) only adds to this logic of erasure and refashioning. The seguidilla is eventually refashioned as Andalusian music (fandango, bolero, etc.) and ends up coming from the South as something new: the new music that consolidates as flamenco at the end of the eighteenth century. As Timothy Mitchell (1994, 95) argues: Given the greater visibility of gitanos in Lower Andalusia, it is not surprising to find that the logical vehicle of majismo in that area of Spain was the so-called seguidilla gitana (which would eventually displace the seguidillas bravías of Madrid). In his groundbreaking study, Mercado demonstrates that, contrary to the claims of modern ideologues like Mairena and Molina, the seguidilla gitana (also known as seguiriya or siguiriya) was the creation not of genetic gitanos per se but of a hybridized group made up of gitanos, majos, guapos, and other lower-class Andalusians: in later years members of this motley crew would come to be known as flamencos. (1994, 95)

It is important to emphasize that, at the height of majo/a culture, in the second half of the eighteenth century, the group known as gitanos, which encompasses, not only Roma people but all nomadic minorities, including Moriscos and Converts, was further mixed when Charles III

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issued an order to control and regulate nomadic life, thus decreeing the most important attempt to regulate subaltern classes wandering between Andalusia and Madrid — which would also explain the strengthening of majo/a culture. As Caro Baroja (1980a, 138–39) states: The most famous of all orders issued in regards to them [Gypsies] was given during the time of Charles III, September 19th 1783; it tried to abolish the existence of nomads, their attire, language and customs, forcing them to settle down and to adopt new forms of life within ninety days. The law had more effect than usually assumed in the case of such decrees. At that time, the Gypsies were scattered throughout Spain, but they were more populous among the gangs in the South and the Southeast. According to Campomanes, they were more than ten thousands. Within a day, most of them were jailed and the lives of many regulated.

Finally, it is important to emphasize the performative nature of majo/a culture. Appearance (clothing and attire), performance (music, dance, and posturing) as well as spectacles (such as bullfighting) are crucial to majo/a culture. In this sense, majo/a culture is truly an enlightened formation that emphasizes the new importance of the image as a form of politics and culture. Majo/a culture opposes an image/performance of excess, based on Spanish imperial history (the Baroque), to the restrictive and rational image/performance of the elite’s Franco-Italo-philic culture. The fluidity majo/a culture experiences — from subaltern spaces all the way to middleclass theater (sainetes in which they are represented) and from subaltern performance to its new aristocratic re-fashioning as “popular” (majismo) — is due, not to its identity (many critics equate aristocratic performances of majo/a culture in sainetes with subaltern majo/a life in the suburbs), but to the centrality of the politics of appearance and performance in the Enlightenment. As Martín Gaite states: “In many commentaries on this phenomenon of generalized striving for social recognition in all strata of society, the reason invoked for its censure was the leveling power of money. People were being judged more on their appearance than on birth” (1991, 35; my emphasis). Caro Baroja also adds a very intriguing historical element to the politics of performance and its historical nature: aristocratic narcissism. This finally helps us understand the relationships between imperialism and Enlightenment. As in Lacan’s mirror stage, the aristocracy can see its earlier imperialist self in the majo/as, now mediated by the absent gaze of the big Other (north-European Enlightenment): Here we have a flood of people, mostly arriving to the capital from the South, which boasts about belonging to a class defined by lineage. Here we have that, being more prone to delinquency, this population forges an ideal of self-worth following the model of the old knights. Here we have, finally, that these groups live according to ideals of love and beauty in which violence and action are prevalent, and, thus, groups of the aristocratic or well-to-do society become fascinated with them and try to imitate them as much as they can. (Caro Baroja 1980b, 68; my emphasis)

Before the new orientalization of Spain took place in the late eighteenth and earlier nineteenth centuries, whereby Spain became part of the (colonial) Orient, the majo/a represented the trace of a non-oriental Baroque Spanish-Morisco-Muslim history against which the Spanish imperialist project was defined and deployed. Yet, this Morisco trace also became the other-supposed-to-beSpanish, the last trace of a Spanish empire not yet colonized by the subject-supposed-to-be-foreigner: the court and the aristocracy. According to Martín Gaite, majo/a culture ultimately adopted as its own this essentialist position and made it a platform for class hatred and symbolic warfare:

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment371 The populace assumed an attitude of complete hostility toward everything foreign. As if in vengeance of their deprived state, men in poor districts entrenched themselves in their xenophobia, showing utter contempt for the wealthy dandies. They adopted a pose of superiority, in the belief that they were the true heirs of the Castilian spirit in its purest essence. They particularly scorned the still-undefined middle class which, carried away by its presumptuous aping of the aristocracy, was the main target of the ridicule in which the new fashion had fallen. The bourgeois dandies were the preferred targets of the defiance, insolence and bravado of the majos, especially if they were caught in the lower-class districts of Lavapiés, the Rastro, Embajadores, Sol and Maravillas, and if they dared to enter their taverns and dances, or if they meddled with their women. Ramón de la Cruz’s plays supply us with plentiful examples of these tricky situations. (Martín Gaite 1991, 47; my emphasis)

This unsymbolizable substance or abjection (Haidt 2011), re-presented — mis-represented — by the majo/a, became the ultimate object of historical enjoyment for the elite. Yet, in the nineteenth century, the majo/a subaltern culture split into two: the urban, subaltern group and culture centered in Madrid, known as manolismo (one of the first references for “Manolo” is also a 1769 sainete of the same title by De la Cruz), on the one hand, and another more rural one centered in Andalusia, known as gitano or flamenco, on the other. Still, in the early nineteenth century, the majo/a became the representation of resistance against the French invasion (see Martín Gaite 1991, 47). They offered two separate representations of the dichotomy originally contained within majo/a culture: the exterior and the interior others respectively. The reason for this split is the incorporation of the point of view of the foreigner. Here, it is worth quoting Washabaugh at length, as he links majo/a culture with the origins of Spanish romanticism in the nineteenth century and, thus, the beginning of Spanish nationalism and its celebration of majo/a culture as its core: Majos resisted by defiantly opposing everything associated with the francophiliac Spanish aristocracy. Majismo as a cultural style might not have flourished as it did had it not been for the ironies of the early nineteenth century. First, the majo’s rude defiance acquired a positive value when it was juxtaposed with the morally decadent refinements of the French court. Second, the European literati heroized Andalusian majismo, especially after the War of Independence (1808–14) during which a ragtag Spanish army, aided by gun-toting monks and scissor-wielding women, successfully opposed the French Republic’s soldiers, while embattled patriots in Cádiz promulgated a stunningly liberal constitution. Thereafter, according to Michael Jacobs, “The attention of Europe was turned increasingly towards Spain, and in particular Andalusia.” “In no other part of the country,” wrote George Dennis in 1839, “is the liberal part stronger than in Andalusia.” As the British saw it, the military ineptitude of the majos of Andalusia was more than adequately offset by their defiantly liberal spirit. The attentions paid to Andalusia by the British were not lost on the many Spanish intellectuals who had sought refuge outside of Spain during the war. When those Spanish intellectuals returned to their homeland in the 1830s, they took up the theme of celebrating Andalusia, singing coplas (verses) celebrating the courage of the peasants during the War. In short, the new crop of Spanish intellectuals found themselves revaluing their homeland, its customs, and its expressions, including its music. “The first overtures of Peninsular romanticism were from amongst the exiled. Not only did they accept a principle of nationalism that was incompatible with neoclassical universalism, but they allowed themselves an enthusiastic turn towards primitivism and spontaneity, represented above all in popular song [by majo/a culture]”. (Washabaugh 1996, 40–41; my emphasis)

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Of the two forms in wich majo/a culture split, flamenco and manolismo, one went on to become the main character of nineteenth-century zarzuelas (as in La Verbena de la Paloma, 1894), the other became the main character of flamenco and café cantantes. They were mobilized to represent the positive and negative sides of the ideology of casticismo (from Galdós’s Fortunata y Jacinta to Unamuno’s En torno al casticismo and Ortega’s España invertebrada). As Mitchell summarizes, in the nineteenth century the upper classes also reacted to gitano or flamenco culture in ways that were similar to the manner in which previous upper classes had reacted to their contemporary subaltern cultures: “this gitanismo or gitanización was similar to upper-class interest in majismo and can be related even to the vogue for morisco ballads and legends that had taken hold among many aristocratic families toward the end of the sixteenth century” (Mitchell 1994, 106). The relation of nineteenth-century upper classes to manolismo was similar and, in literature, became one of the central axes of costumbrismo from the 1843 Los españoles pintados por sí mismos (The Spaniards portrayed by themselves) to Galdós’s masterwork cited above. Most critics have not emphasized this irreconciliable duality of casticismo (flamencogitano/manolismo), which dates back to majismo. By placing majo/a culture as one of the two subjects that constitute and explain the Enlightenment in Spain, its non-reducible history is affirmed in ways that make impossible a presentist and nationalist claim for a negative Enlightenment: the clash between subaltern and aristocratic classes and their respective cultures responds to an older imperialist other: Morisco, Roma, and Converso. As the Spanish imperialist logic of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was based on the erasure of these imperialist others, the aristocratic enlightened subject of the eighteenth century perceived its own erasure by the new north-European imperialisms precisely in these older imperialist others. Thus, majo/a culture is at the center of a complex structure of imperialist movements by which the erasure of the decadent Spanish empire — its extra-imperial otherness and erasure — come to define the true and unacknowledged (extra-Spanish) inner logic of the Spanish Enlightenment (for an analysis of the same ambivalences between Baroque and Enlightened culture in most representations ordered and fostered by the enlightened monarchy, see Medina 2009). This erasure is performative in its discursive dimension. A colonial Atlantic Enlightenement. The Basque aristocracy and the RSBAP Perhaps no other institution helped mediate — shape and propagate — the enlightened project more than the numerous Real Sociedad (Económica) de Amigos del País (Royal [Economic] Society of Friends of the Country) fostered by Charles III’s prime minister, Campomanes, across the metropolis and the colonies. These societies were shaped after the original model created independently by an important group of Basque aristocrats: Real Sociedad Bascongada de los Amigos del País (1765; henceforth Royal Basque Society). It is important to underscore the fact that the main discursive genre fostered by these Royal Societies was the essay: the genre adopted by a new professional and technocratic class to mediate between classes, cultures, and geographies (Imízcoz & Chaparro 2009, 1027). Just the original Royal Basque Society published over 70 treaties and essays in the eighteenth century. Moreover, Jovellanos’s Informe sobre el expediente de ley agraria (Report on agrarian law, 1795), one of the foundational essays of the Spanish Enlightenment, was commissioned in 1787 by the first Royal Society founded outside the Basque

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment373 Country, in Madrid (the Basque presence and influence in this first Royal Society are clear; see Imízcoz & Chaparro 2009, 1022). Thus, if writers such as Feijoo or Torres Villarroel had a great impact through their personally authored essays, the enlightened thrust was carried instead by these Royal Societies whose main goal was to disseminate and develop the new natural sciences, especially in the areas of agriculture, industry, and economics. In Spain the number of these societies grew to 70 (Ruiz Torres 2008, 486), with another 10 in Latin America throughout the beginning of the nineteenth century. Yet, although the Royal Basque Society has been thoroughly studied (from Urquijo 1929 to Astigarraga 2003), its eminently Atlantic formation and organization have been neglected or minimized. Between 1765 and 1793, this Society had 1629 members of which only 18 percent resided in the Basque Country. The majority of members were located in the colonies: 49 percent resided in the Americas — especially in Mexico and Peru — and only 33 percent in the rest of the Peninsula (Imízcoz & Chaparro 2009, 1019). My emphasis on the Atlantic dimension of the first Royal Basque Society has to do with its very origin: the main reason why the Basque Country became the first area to promote these Royal Societies is Atlantic. The Basque Country (the three provinces and the kingdom of Navarre) was the only area where ancient-regime political institutions (foral regimes, from charters known as fueros) survived the new centralist policies of Philip V, i.e., the Nueva planta decrees (1707–16). The Basque foral regimes were upheld by the Bourbon monarch as an acknowledgement of the Basques’ support in the succession wars of 1701–14 — unlike Aragon, Valencia, and Catalonia who sided with the Austrian pretender, the Archduke Charles VI, and thus were punished with the loss of their political institutions. The Basque political regime entailed, among other things, a system of inland customs, on the border with Castile, so that the Basque Country remained a free-trade area with a preponderant seaborne economy. This Atlantic condition led, on the one hand, to new trading projects such as the quasi-monopolistic exploitation of Venezuela by a Basque company named Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas (1728–85; henceforth the Company of Caracas, see Amezaga Aresti 1979) and the increasing monopolization of the Castilian wool exports by Biscayan traders mainly located in Bilbao — they also traded on the locally mined iron ore. On the other hand, this Atlantic commerce led the Basque nobility to educate their children in France — mainly at the Jesuit school of Toulouse but also in Paris. Beyond the anecdotal relations with French enlightened philosophers — such as the friendship between the Basque Manuel Ignacio Altuna and Rousseau (mentioned in the latter’s Confessions) and the former’s influence on drafting Emile ou de l’éducation (Palacios 1996), or Joaquín María de Eguía y Aguirre’s (third Marquis of Narros) epistolary relationship with Voltaire — France’s direct cultural influence became central to the formation of this Basque enlightened aristocracy which, then, following Irish and Franco-Briton models (The Dublin Society, 1731; Société d’Agriculture, de Commerce et des Arts, 1757), promoted similar Royal Societies in Spain (Astigarraga 2003, 40–47). This Atlantic formation of the Basque Royal Society has been (dis)missed by most SpanishBasque historians who are located in the Peninsula and thus tend to overlook any extra-Peninsular, transatlantic condition. In short, the Atlantic is not simply a peripheral dimension of the Basque and Spanish Enlightenments. It is central in the formation of the Enlightenment, which can be pictured as a bidirectional traffic between Venezuela, the Basque Country, and France. The economic capital extracted from Venezuela and brought to the Basque Country by the nobility (Society of Caracas) served to purchase the cultural and symbolic capital exported from

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Toulouse and Paris by the children of this very same aristocracy. Although historians characterize this Basque aristocracy as a land-holding class (land rentals organized around the institution of mayorazgo), the fact that the leaders and founders of the Company of Caracas and the Royal Basque Society were both Counts of Peñaflorida — father and son respectively — demonstrates the economic and symbolic importance of this Atlantic economy (Basterra 1925, 27–28). Many noblemen who were shareholders of the Company of Caracas were also members of the Basque Royal Society. Although Imízcoz and Chaparro also subscribe to the theory of the land-holding origin of the Basque enlightened aristocracy, at the end of their liminal article, they sketch a different hypothesis which is Atlantic and commercial, rather than agricultural, in its scope: In sum, the core of full members of the Basque Society corresponds with the families from the Basque Provinces most closely connected with the Hispanic monarchy throughout the eighteenth century. […] They constituted important cadres in the monarchic government; they sponsored members of their extended and allied families as well as from families friendly to the [Basque] Provinces in courtly, military, and bureaucratic careers and they managed in the Court many issues related to the mercantile and industrial interests of those families, from the foundation of the Guipuzcoan Company of Caracas, in 1728, to the businesses connected with the war economy of the monarchy, such as weapon factories, with the iron exports to the Indies, and with other interests of the colonial market. (Imízcoz & Chaparro 2009, 1007; my emphasis)

Moreover, this transatlantic trade of influences and capital was not simply one-directional, i.e., defined by the extractive nature of colonialism. Rather, it is important to emphasize that Venezuela became the center of the first revolts for independence as well as of the enlightened culture that led Latin America to the colonial wars of independence of the ninetenth century (1810–25), with Simón Bolívar and Andrés Miranda, both Venezuelan subjects. (Venezuela was transferred from the Royal Audience of Santo Domingo to the Vice-Royalty of Nueva Granada in the eighteenth century and was made independent from this vice-royalty in 1742. In 1777, Venezuela became “Capitanía General de Venezuela.”) In short, this Atlantic traffic of capital, economic and cultural, on its way from the Basque Country to Venezuela, helped form a Venezuelan enlightened culture that served as the basis for the later processes of colonial independence. At the beginning of the eighteenth century, Venezuela, because of its lack of an extractive economy of gold and silver, was still the backdrop of Spanish colonialism — unlike in the case of Mexico and Peru (for the other important chapter of this Atlantic traffic with Mexico and Peru, see Whitaker 1961, 14–15). It survived basically thanks to the illegal traffic of cocoa beans with Dutch contrabandists from Curaçao. As the 1765 homonym publication by the Company of Caracas notes, prior to the arrival of the Company of Caracas (1728), no ship left from Spain for Venezuela between 1706 and 1724 (188) and none left from Venezuela for Spain between 1706 and 1721 (28). Although the first American Royal Society was founded in Mompox, Colombia, in 1784 (Córdoba 1975, 25), ironically enough, one of the few places in which such a society was not established throughout the eighteenth century was precisely Venezuela (Magallanes 1973, 16). Only in 1811, after independence, was one such society instituted in Caracas, 26 years after the Company of Caracas had closed (1785). In short, the Basque Enlightenment avoided Caracas precisely because local resistance to the Basque colonialist practices had already created a climate of opposition such that a full deployment of the enlightened project through the funding of a Royal Society would have pushed Venezuela earlier in the direction of independence. Alfredo Ignacio D’Alta lists seven rebellions in Venezuela during the existence of the Company of Caracas

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment375 (2010, 81–90). Thus, the opposition to the colonialist Basque Enlightenment in Venezuela grew to become the center of the American Enlightenment and independence, precisely in its formation as antagonism to the colonialist Basque Enlightenment. The first Economic Society (Sociedad Patriótica de Agricultura y Economía) was founded in Venezuela at the beginning of the revolution. As Julián Pacheco Troconis (2003) explains: The Patriotic Society of Agriculture and Economy ended up being known by the name of Patriotic Society and soon changed its main goal to becoming a center for the discussion of political ideas in vogue, in the fashion of a French club, crediting this change to Bolívar and Miranda. On February 23rd 1812, due to the Patriotic Society’s lack of progress, they founded the Economic Society of the Nation’s Friends of Caracas, reading their bylaws, which the Government had the courtesy of approving […] This Society did not pursue the activities contained in their bylaws, due to the separatist conflict.

This Venezuelan reaction to and independence from a despotic Basque Enlightenment (quasimonopoly on colonialism and knowledge) completes and gives meaning to the complex transAtlantic enlightened traffic of cultural, symbolic, and economic capital. The effects have been pointed out several times, although no thorough analysis has been undertaken yet. Andrés Bello already noted in 1810 in his Resumen de la historia de Venezuela: The pleasing perspective that we just presented will always justify the first years of the Company [of Caracas] against the fair objections that can be raised against the last years that preceded its extinction. Not only do the ties to the metropolis become strengthened in the first trails of this mercantile society, but are also Venezuela’s relations with the rest of coastal points of the American continent facilitated. […] The population grows with the agents, clerks, employees and workers from Biscay and the Canaries, coastal shipping and commerce is born, the cultivation of new crops grows and expands, the Americans redouble their efforts to achieve a new order of prosperity, the necessities of all classes multiply, and the inland communication with the bordering kingdoms and provinces improves. […] Such would be the effects that would make the institution of the Company of Guipuzcoa valuable, if similar establishments could be valuable when societies, outgrowing their childhood, would not need crutches with which to take the first steps towards maturation. It did not take long for Venezuela to know its strength; the first use it made of such force was to get rid of obstacles that prevented her from freely using its limbs. (1810, 12)

Towards the end of his Rebelión contra la Compañía de Caracas (Rebellion against the Company of Caracas), Francisco Morales Padrón summarizes well a fact that has already been suggested by Basterra, Hussey, and Estornés Lasa. After citing the revolt of 1749 against the Company of Caracas led by Juan Francisco de León, he concludes: The State did not overlook the teachings derived from this uprising. Following this lesson, it was ordered that the Guipuzcoana [Caracas Company] resettle its Board of Directors in Madrid. The Venezuelans were guaranteed the right to trade with Veracruz; they were also admitted as investors in the Company [including Simón Bolívar’s father]; a committee was formed to fix the price of cocoa beans […] Venezuelans secured a sixth of the boats’ hold […] The Guipuzcoana increased its extraction of cocoa beans, so that between 1750 and 1764 brought 500,313 fanegas [1.58 bushels] of cocoa beans to Spain, almost twice what it had extracted over the last 20 years. At the same time of this growth in exports, the prices of the exported products increased and the Province experienced a great economic surge […] although the Company began to decline and go bankrupt due to the multiple businesses in which it had engaged. (Morales Padrón 1955, 139)

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Yet, the seeming contradiction of a Basque enlightened presence in Venezuela in the form of a quasi-monopolistic colonial exploitation and the lack of development of enlightened institutions such as the Royal Society in Caracas, points to a more important economic, cultural, and political formation. It requires us to think the Spanish Enlightenment as originally colonial in its formation, so that the enlightened metropolis becomes an effect or extension of the colony and not vice versa.

The colonial Basque Enlightenment. On the aristocratic essay So far most historians have focused on the Royal Basque Society and its regional history, in order to tackle the issue of the Enlightenment. In this way, the problem has been re-centered in the Peninsula so that retroactively the Enlightenment fits the modern Spanish nation-state, rather than the colonial Spanish empire. Yet the prominence of the Royal Basque Society must be questioned in light of its relationship with the Company of Caracas. This company has not received as much attention and, as a result, only few monographs, already outdated in style and content, can be consulted: Ramón de Basterra’s Una empresa del siglo XVIII (1925), Roland Dennis Hussey’s The Caracas Company, 1728–1784 (1934), José Estornés Lasa’s La Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Navegación de Caracas (1948), and Francisco Morales Padrón’s Rebelión contra la Compañía de Caracas (1955). Only one more monograph has been published in recent years, which, although written in the traditional historiographic mold, provides a definitive account of its history: Montserrat Garate Ojanguren’s La Real Compañía de Caracas (1990). Rafael Arráiz Lucca’s most recent Venezuela, 1728–1830: Guipuzcoana e Independencia: breve historia política (2011) simply updates in chronological order the events and names without adding much analysis. Thus, none of these works permit us to think the issue of the Enlightenment in its double relation to the colonies and the metropolis, so that it can be historicized as an Atlantic formation. Since most critics neglect to point to the genealogy of the Company of Caracas, it is first important to note that it was fashioned after other earlier companies such as The East India Company — formed in 1600 and turned into a joint-stock company in 1707 — and the Dutch East India Company (1602). It is important to note that Venezuela was contracted to the German Welser bankers in the sixteenth century (1528–46) and, as Garate Ojanguren adds, there were already some Spanish attempts to create a similar company in the seventeenth century (1990, 9–10). Curiously, the most reactionary and oldest of the above-mentioned works, Basterra’s Los navíos, provides a reference that is crucial to understanding the Spanish Enlightenment’s Atlantic formation. He mentions an essay published in 1765 by the Company of Caracas to defend its colonial presence, after several rebellions had begun to question politically the “natural” colonial order. The year following the foundation of the Royal Basque Society, 1765, the Company of Caracas published a book with the same title, Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas, which was authored by the “Direction of the Royal Company.” This book was a compilation of an earlier book written on the aftermath of the revolt of 1749 and of other legal documents, preceded by a new introduction (“Primero: Discurso Proemial,” 1–21) whose style and terminology point to the junior Count of Peñaflorida, Xabier de Munibe (Basterra 1925, 79). The book, published in 1749 and entitled Manifiesto, que con incontestables hechos prueba los grandes beneficios, que ha producido

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment377 el establecimiento de la Real Compania Guipuzcoana de Caracas (Manifest, which proves with unquestionable facts the great benefits that the establishment of the Royal Guipuzcoan Company of Caracas has produced), was authored by the first director of the company, José de Iturriaga, and constituted the second part of the new book of 1765 (22–100). The third part of the book expanded the original manifesto: Resumen general de las utilidades, que por todos ramos ha traído y trae esta Real Compañia al Estado, al Comercio Nacional, y a la Real Hacienda (101–39; General summary of the benefits that this Royal Company has brought and continues to bring to the State, to the national commerce, and to the Royal Treasury in all trades), and was signed by four directors of the company. The fourth part was a detailed account of the different products that the Company of Caracas brought from Spain to Venezuela (140–42). The fifth and sixth parts were certifications issued by the Supreme Council of the Indies whereby the lawfulness of every transaction made by the Company of Caracas was detailed and certified (145–77). There is nothing revelatory per se about this book, except in the form: it already contains the program of what the Royal Basque Society would become in the following years, and echoes another book written before the Company of Caracas was founded: Pedro Jose de Olavarriaga’s La instrucción general y particular del estado presente de la Provincia de Venezuela en los años 1720 y 21 (General and detailed report of the present state of the province of Venezuela in the years 1720 and 1721). The book published in 1765 begins by invoking factual experience as the “mother of science,” which is the “loyal guide who leads to the real road of rights, closing the entrance to the paths that end in the opposite extreme of wrongs” (Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas 1765, 3). Therefore, the introduction announces that the book will adopt “a historical method, very concise, and the most adjusted to the truth” (4). In short, the book begins by aligning itself with the discursive ideals of the Enlightenment. After explaining in detail the price of cocoa beans and other products brought to Venezuela by the Company of Caracas, the text invokes the Spanish monarchy to legitimize the absolutist order in which the company finds its legitimation — in an enlightened moderation whose only goal is the public and the state, thus, avoids the capitalist greed of the foreign Dutch contrabandists: Let it be known that, despite everything, the Company could not stray from the path of a prudent moderation, nor ever step on the extreme of excess, because of the reasons already mentioned, which can be summed up in the fact that every substantial novelty regarding the public, which can be undertaken in the government of the Company, is always preceded by the superior knowledge of the Ministry; and depending on the merits of the issue, and with previous examination of its causes, the royal sanction is sought for the approved agreement; considering, for a given maxim, that the many provisions of the Company are greatly intertwined with those of Her Majesty; in the same manner, that its businesses and progress are also tied with those of the Estate, the common wealth, and the royal treasury, as it is made clear in this book. (Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas 1765, 16; my emphasis)

The introduction then proceeds to turn both the data provided and the claim to the absolutist order of enlightened moderation, into an enlightened program, which could have also been written for the inaugural essay of the Royal Basque Society, published the following year. By addressing the benefit of national competition among different merchants and companies, the text concludes:

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Finally, and as the ultimate proof of the Company’s enlightened moderation, the writers provide factual information based on experience. As a result, the book becomes a series of elaborate, long lists of “facts” based on experience and data-gathering. The overall argument is advanced when the writers claim that, prior to the arrival of the Company of Caracas, Venezuela produced 21,000 fanegas of cocoa beans, but after, thanks to all the technical and scientific improvements of the Company, the province produced 80,000 (Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas 1765, 113). This production resulted in the following amounts of capital for the years 1728–65: 35 million pesos in imports from Venezuela (117), 9 million pesos in exports (115), 9 million pesos in taxes for the treasury (118), and 14 million pesos in savings for the Spanish public due to the lower price of cocoa beans (120). This quadrupling of the production of cocoa beans is then complemented with other improvements made in Venezuela: the building of new ports, the full funding of the army, the doubling of the Church’s tithe, and the expulsion of the Dutch contrabandists, thus fully restoring the imperial and economic order. Finally, the book argues that the Company of Caracas had tripled the amount of cattle in the province and had brought new crops, such as indigo, and had also fostered the large-scale production of agricultural crops that had been marginal until that point: cotton and sugar. Only the certifications speak to the fact that the Company of Caracas also “contributed” to the Venezuelan economy by bringing 3,694 black slaves through 1739 (Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas 1765, 151). The number of slaves apprehended from the Dutch contrabandists is mentioned but not accounted. Moreover, the colonies became the ultimate mirror and model to assess the need for a Spanish Enlightenment, as the inferiority of most Spanish goods could compete with the products manufactured in northern Europe. In short, the need for — and the limits of — an enlightened project, although already present in Spain, became clearest in the colonies: It is necessary to acknowledge the superiority that foreigners have generally over us on the manufactures required to furnish the Americas. They have everything we have and much of what we don’t, beginning with linen of all types, which constitutes the main provision good; in other words, from what we purchase from other countries in Spain, one can infer what we need for America: from everything stated above, we can conclude that, as long as we are not equals in this balance, we will be inferior to compete with them in that commerce with our industry. (Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas 1765, 110–11; my emphasis)

By reading this account against the new plans of the Royal Basque Society founded that very same year, one must conclude that the core of the future program of the Basque enlightened society had been already implemented in Venezuela, in the colony. The combination of sciences and practical technology (agriculture and economics) had already been developed in Venezuela. The first Ensayo or Essay (Munibe e Idiáquez) that laid out the plans of the new Royal Basque Society

The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment379 in 1766 in the Basque Country had already been carried out in Venezuela over the last 40 years (1828–65). The opening essay of the Royal Basque Society precisely prescribes the production of essays similar to the ones produced by the Company of Caracas earlier on: On the agreed day, the Friends met in Bergara, and continued to hold daily meetings till the thirteenth day, examining the manuscripts that were presented and making arrangements for the solid foundation of the Society. It would be necessary too much time to specify all the agreements reached with this purpose; it will suffice to say. First: that, aware of the importance of having all its individuals in continuous activity, it was agreed that they would hold weekly meetings in all the towns where two or more friends resided, and would have a cash book, whereby their observations and news regarding agriculture, industry, and everything they deemed worth sharing in the next general meeting of the society would be noted […] Second: that all the useful works and news that any citizen, who would not be a member, sent to the society or to any of its members would be included on the ledger: and those that were deemed of known utility to the public would be printed in the yearly collection, thankfully recalling their authors. (Munibe e Idiáquez 1766, 13–14; my emphasis)

Later, the main goal is repeated again, in a more utilitarian but precise way, and assigned a discursive genre: “the work presented to the public with the title Essay is bound to matters of sheer utility, as they are those of agriculture, commerce, industry, architecture, etc. and follows the foundation of the body of the society, which dictates to give preference to the useful over the pleasant” (Munibe e Idiáquez 1766, 27–28). However, in the Essay there is no reference whatsoever to the Company of Caracas and its publications. The “earlier Venezuelan version” of the Essay that founded the Basque Enlightenment had to be forgotten as origin and trace of what appeared in the Essay as a new foundational act of the Spanish Enlightenment in the Basque Country. The original Venezuelan essay already contains the discursive structure that permits this enlightened erasure and forgetting in the Basque Country. The 1749 essay by Iturriaga, compiled in the 1765 essay of the Company of Caracas, already resorts to another enlightened trope to cover up the Venezuelan trace: the discourse of the natural sciences that turns the colonial field into pristine, virgin land void of any local or indigenous presence: “It was as notorious as deplorable for these Kingdoms the constitution of the most fertile Province of Venezuela, or Caracas, before the foundation of the Company, the situation of the most fertile Province of Venezuela, or Caracas, was as notorious as deplorable for these Kingdoms; and although it was a barren, abandoned and deserted country state for Spain, it was nevertheless a rich land for the Dutch” (Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas 1765, 27; my emphasis). As a final move, and in order to maintain the fantasy of a virgin colonial land void of settlers, Iturriaga expels the inhabitants of Caracas as enemies of the common wealth and the fatherland, in line with the Dutch contrabandists: “powerful and domineering individuals […] they do not seek to promote the true interests of the common cause, but to hide themselves with this pretext, and to pursue, in its shade, their individual business, in detriment of the common wealth of their own fatherland” (Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas 1765, 83). In that way, the colonial formation of the enlightened project could be forgotten and could be recreated ex nihilo, anew, on the metropolis, and the ruling institutions and classes of the empire were refashioned as the subjects of the Spanish Enlightenment. Colonial factuality and technique became the objects of a metropolitan fantasy to implement a new Enlightenment on the non-colonial (metropolitan) side of the empire.

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To conclude The double non-Spanish articulation of the Enlightenment as imperialist-subaltern-Morisco (Roma, Convert…) and colonial-Basque, restores a complex historical, biopolitical, and geopolitical map of such an enlightened project. This double Enlightenment exceeds the empire while constituting it. Accordingly, the new metropolitan, enlightened subject resorts for its foundation to the effacement of its biopolitical and geopolitical traces, imperialist and colonial alike, in an excessive geography that is irreducibly Atlantic (and to a lesser extend Mediterranean). Since the nineteenth century, Spanish nationalist ideology has reconstructed this Enlightenment that erases its own historical traces as an “insufficient, lacking, incomplete project.” Yet, my Atlantic relocation of a double extra-Spanish Enlightenment also serves to redefine the European Enlightenment. Kant’s “What is Enlightenment” (1996) and his transcendental philosophy must be understood precisely as an acknowledgment of the Enlightenment’s inability to represent imperialist and colonial reality as its founding act (Eze 1997). It is the erasure of these traces that precisely constitutes the Enlightenment as a new, Eurocentric project in the eighteenth century. As Emmanuel Eze reminds us, Kant’s most popular course was precisely on anthropology: on the construction of the other (1997, 2–3). In this sense, this double vision of the Spanish Enlightenment becomes a privileged site from which to rethink a north-European Enlightenment that, from this double Hispanic lens, appears in turn insufficient.

The anthology as instrument of mediation María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar The functioning of anthologies in emergent cultural formations The purpose of this chapter is to sketch out a reflection on anthologies of poetry, understood as mechanisms of literary mediation, in the non-state cultural formations of the Iberian Peninsula, with specific attention paid to the Catalan and Galician cases. Although in the second section, I will allude to the role of certain forms of compilation (cancioneros, coronas, florilegios, teatros, jardines, polimatías, polianteas) in classical, medieval, and early modern literature (fifteenth to eigteenth centuries), the bulk of these remarks refer to the anthological phenomenon in the modern sense (nineteenth and twentieth centuries). Thus, there are various criteria I will use to define the object of study. Firstly, there is the generic question, which concerns the selection of anthologies of poetry as opposed to the possibility of analyzing collections of narrative, theatre, or essays. Secondly, there is the geocultural parameter, which privileges the literatures of the socalled “nations without state” of the Iberian Peninsula, and, among them, the ones in Romance languages. And, thirdly, there is the historiographical parameter, which situates the modern anthological phenomenon in Galicia and the Països Catalans in the processes of Rexurdimento/ Renaixença (renaissance of the peripheral literatures). Although none of these parameters is self-evident, their selection is not arbitrary, nor strictly based on the need to examine a corpus of texts that allow a detailed analysis of the problems of study. The remark that the “anthological phenomenon” (the term comes from Champeau & Ly 2000) achieves its highest degree of consolidation and influence during the nineteenth century, to become a key piece in the institutionalization of literary systems throughout the twentieth century, is already a classic argument in the literature on anthologies, although, as I will show, reasonable objections to it can be made. The second half of the twentieth century is now being recognized by Peninsular historiography as a decisive period for the constitution of the Catalan and Galician literary systems. Moreover, in Catalan and Galician literature, poetry, especially in the second half of the twentieth century, developed into the genre that was the holder of the symbolic values of the community; for this reason, restricting our analysis to poetic anthologies will allow us to evaluate the role of systemic mediation in the complex mechanisms of historical legitimization.

Literary mediation in compilations before the anthological form Before the modern period — limiting these reflections to the Western tradition — very diverse methods of selection and cataloguing of literary material were in circulation. Take, for example, the foundational Garland (first century BC) by Meleager of Gadara, a Greek poet and scholar who, around 70 BC, collected selected works by about forty poets from the eighth to the second century BC. Eighty years later, Philippus of Thessalonica prepared a similar collection. Around doi 10.1075/chlel.29.32rab © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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the year 900, Constantinus Cephalas, employee of the court of Constantinople, referred to this and other sources, like the Cycle of Agathias, to put together a monumental catalog numbering sixteen volumes, in which 300 authors and 4,500 poems are collected. The specimen, which in the seventeenth century could be found in the Palatine Library in Heidelberg, is known as the Palatine Anthology (tenth century). In 1301, Byzantine grammarian Maximus Planudes inserted important additions. Thus, Meleager is the initiator of a very broad textual corpus that includes epigrams spanning from the eighth century BC to the fourteenth AD, by pagan and Christian authors, and that was manipulated by various mediators. This series of texts informs us about two of the main characteristics of the compilation genre, which can be verified as well in the modern anthological phenomenon. I am referring to its connection with spheres of power and its historical versatility, which invites us to study it as one of the most complex processes of the longue durée (Marcos Martínez 2001). The Palatine Anthology, a work widely disseminated in Europe, is indispensable for our understanding not only of the dissemination, but also of the construction and understanding of the lyric as generic threshold associated with values like brevity, fragmentedness, and intensity. Gérard Genette (1992) considers, in the same way, that the first collections of alexandrines, structured around the epigram unit, could have served as a passport for the genre in a period which, like the Greek period, had not yet recognized the relevance of the theoretical entity that modern genre studies have come to call the lyric. Take also the medieval cancioneros (songbooks), so relevant for the preservation and organization of the Occitan, Catalan, and Galician-Portuguese lyrics. Scholars of the anthological phenomenon and even anthologists, have, with some frequency, given medieval cancioneros the title of “anthologies.” In this regard, referring to the Galician case, scholar Álvaro Varela SuanzesCarpegna (1999, 69) writes: Galician literature was no stranger to the desire to collect that manifests itself vigorously in the last centuries of the Middle Ages, a period in which many varied compilations were prepared, as documented by the valuable examples of the cancioneiros. In these cases, the selection (anthology, codex or cancioneiro) is of a mixed type, textual and musical […] Everything indicates to us how our medieval poetry, in keeping with the times, was the object of selection at the hands of, and for the pleasure of, educated people — nobles, mostly. The case of the religious cantigas presents a model of collective anthology and very probably the secular ones as well. Thus, the medieval cancioneiros fit perfectly with the concept of anthology.

And anthologist César Morán (1999, 9), also referring to Galician-language literature, remarks: “From the medieval Cancioneiros (true anthologies) and since the Mosaico that followed the Xogos Florais [poetry competition] of 1861, there are selections or compendia of our poetic works.” The question becomes even more complicated if we take into account the polysemy of the very term cancionero. Antonio Prieto (1984, 98), in his exemplification of the history of poetry in Castilian, comments on the semantic broadness of the label in the following lines, using the label anthology as a baseline that is not marked by taxonomic oppositions: Firstly, cancionero has the meaning of collective anthology, as occurs in cancionero poetry from the Cancionero de Baena to the Cancionero General, and consists of extensive and careful texts that include or select a variety of poetry from very diverse authors and very distinct storylines (although we should recall that later, cancioneros with a certain thematic unity would be let go). The entity that, for these anthologies, bears the term calls our attention to the question of how,

The anthology as instrument of mediation383 for different anthologies of poetry, Pedro Espinosa employs the title Flores de poetas ilustres in his 1605 Valladolid anthology. Secondly, the term “cancionero” serves to determine a varied and multiform collection of poetry belonging to one sole author, as in the case of Jorge de Montemayor’s Cancionero in both its first edition and second edition in Antwerp (1558). The Letter that don Rodrigo de Mendoça addresses to the poet states this variety, “of the things that here with such diversity of subject and in such diverse metre appear,” at the same time as nuancing the title of the text “Could your worship give the Cancionero the title of Cornucopia, because never have we seen from one author such different works, and all shortened.” To a great extent, cancionero means here more or less complete “poetic works.” Finally, there is a third, very different meaning for the term that concerns the understanding of the cancionero as a personal history, essentially romantic, and that is the meaning that interests us in these pages. This third sense comes into play as of Petrarch’s Canzionere and, with its norms, defines poetic collections of one same author, even if they do not bear the title of cancionero. (Prieto 1984, 98)

In light of these extensive uses of the term, I believe it is necessary to acknowledge a specificity of the historical form “anthology” in its modern incarnation, a specificity that will distinguish it from other modes of collection like analecta, colectánea, poliantea, teatro, gnomologio, tesoro, corona, museo, álbum, centón, romancero, florilegio, and cancionero. This is exactly the meaning of the distinction established by Emmanuel Fraisse (1997) between “anthologies” and “anthological forms.” I believe it is better to reserve the term “anthology” to refer to the modern incarnation of a broad type of texts that, generically, we could call “literary compilation.” Thus, bearing in mind Oswald Ducrot and Tzvetan Todorov’s (1979) opposition between historical genre and theoretical genre, we can compare the relationship between anthology and compilation to the link between the modern novel, as a specific literary example, and the narrative, as a macrogeneric threshold. The modernity of the anthology compared to other historical forms of compilation is supported by a series of features that I will attempt to explain below. Regarding its social uses, in contrast to the poliantea, the florilegio, or the gnomologio, the anthology abandons the pretensions of supplying textual models for literary imitation and appears to promote the production of mechanisms of representation that are projected onto very different objects: from the nationalliterary space to generational, group, epochal, thematic, or stylistic spaces. In classical pedagogy, and in its vast medieval extension, collections of texts interacted with the principle of imitatio in different but complementary ways. One one hand, they operated in the mode of great containers of models for emulation. On the other, they themselves were seen as the fruit of previous imitative labors, where the compiler would play the role of disciple before the authorized sources. Thus, classical sources often describe literary compilations metaphorically as honeycombs full of honey, collected from flower to flower by bees. The very image of a harvesting bee who synthesizes the fruit of a previous process serves to characterize both the imitation and the textual object that is its result, an object that therefore would fall under the same productive-reproductive category. In this vein, Marcos Martínez (2001, 97–98) mentions Seneca, in the Ad Lucilium epistolae morales (84), Plutarch’s Moralia (32E, 41E, 79C) and, especially, Lucian’s The Fisherman. The emergence of the modern anthological form, therefore, supposes the substitution of the imitative paradigm, based on the continuity of tradition, by a representational paradigm, based on a progressive breaking of ties with humanist knowledge, largely of European reach, and on the possibility of anthologizing an object historically separated from the present of the production of the work. From the temporal perspective, this fact incorporates into the anthology the awareness of

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distance with respect to the past that is characteristic of modernity (Elias 1991). This displacement of an imitative literary paradigm by a representational-identity paradigm can be seen clearly in the anthological phenomenon, in a spectrum of characteristics whose scope reaches the level of the texts and the level of what Genette (1982) calls “paratexts,” a dimension that is especially relevant for the study of anthologies. For example, the gradual protagonism of the “author function” in the anthological device, which Michel Foucault linked to an epistemological change analogous to the one we are attempting to examine here, leads to a noticeable transformation of the frames of relevance assigned to the texts and authors in individual anthologies. Take, for example, the system of rubrics in literary cancioneros, which is oriented preferentially for commenting on poetic compositions, a fact that permits a relative individualization of the poems and the prominence of textual criteria over authorial criteria when it comes to the ordering of the compilation. Indeed, the study of rubrics is a source of much useful information for the interpretation of the function of cancioneros in the Middle Ages, and it gives us a theoretical basis for an analogy with alexandrine Coronas. Authors such as Elsa Gonçalves (1994), or, following in her footsteps, Xoán Carlos Lagares Díez (1998 [1999]), go in this direction regarding the Galician-Portuguese cancioneiros. Gonçalves, working on the ecdotic problem of the attribution of texts, uses the terms “rubric,” “title,” and “epigraph” synonymously and considers them didascalic; in some respects similar to the paratexts of modern anthologies: Rubric is the appropriate term when speaking of a good thirteenth- or fourteenth-century cancioneiro structured according to functional and esthetic criteria that alternates between the black of the ink marks formed by the succession of poetic texts and the red of the brief didascalia that name their authors or narrate events from their bibliography, determine the distribution of their biography, determine the distribution of texts by genre or explain their contents. (Gonçalves 1994, 14)

In keeping with this definition, Gonçalves distinguishes between three functional types of rubrics, that can coexist in a single copy: (a) attributive rubrics, that give the name of the poet and, eventually, the genre; (b) codicological rubrics, that give information about previous poetic transmission and give us reason to postulate the existence of a pre-cancionero lyric tradition, in which texts circulated in authorial cancioneros; and (c) explanatory rubrics, or razós, that give information for the interpretation of the texts. What is interesting is that in both the Cancioneiro da Vaticana and the Cancioneiro da Biblioteca Nacional, the rubrics give us reason to distinguish two agents of mediation: on the one hand, the scribe or scribes; and on the other, Italian humanist Angelo Colocci: In B [Biblioteca Nacional] as in V [Vatican], the rubrics (whether they are simply the names of the authors, or whether they are more extensive didascalia) appear to be written by two different agents: the copist(s) and Colocci. Now then, if scribes in general, seek to transcribe the model with maximum fidelity, Colocci carries out a more complex operation, which associates the writing of the rubrics with the revision of the copy and, to a certain extent, with textual criticism. (Gonçalves 1994, 20)

Angelo Colocci, thus, perhaps like Meleager of Gadara did in his time, plays a role of correction, clarification, explanation, eventual integration of authors omitted by tradition, and, probably, also of relocation and exclusion of certain texts. Below we will discuss the second-degree mediation of the modern anthological form, verifiable already in these medieval forms of poetic compilation.

The anthology as instrument of mediation385 On the other hand, and thinking of the Provençal cancioneros, it is obvious that, beside the Razós, the Vidas of the troubadours allow us to distinguish the authorial figures. In fact, the Vidas have been adduced as paratexts that constitute a precendent for the appearance of critical and biographical discourse in the body of poetic anthologies. It is illuminating, thus, that on the website Laura Mandell and Rita Raley (1997) dedicate to the role played by compilations of texts in the American lyric tradition, the anthological genre is understood as the result of the confluence of two forms: the miscellany (which presupposes the intervention of a compiling agent) and literary biography (which is based on the conversion of subject into object of the narration, and which originates as far back as the troubadour Vidas). The anthology evolved out of the convergence of two forms: the miscellany and the biography of famous, literary people, the earliest anthologies incorporating into headnotes or footnotes excerpts from biographies such as Biographia Britannica and George Ballard’s Memoirs of Several Ladies of Great Britain.

One of the most visible characteristics of the modern anthological phenomenon is that the authors become the basic structuring principles of the selective order. It is highly significant, with regard to this, that even the attempts to constitute anthologies of poems, safe from a process of depersonalization characteristic of the modern lyric, are based on an expressive and vehement refutation of anthologies of poets. Also, very influential anthologies in the constitution of the modern anthological phenomenon, such as Paul Verlaine’s Les Poets maudits (Accursed poets, 1884–88) are a perfect example of the association between autopoetic texts, biography, and the criterion of authorial representation in the construction of modern anthologies. The poets anthologized and critically annotated by Verlaine are Pobre Lelian (pseudonym of the anthologist himself), Arthur Rimbaud, Phillippe-August Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, Tristan Corbière, Stéphane Mallarmé, and Marceline Desbordes-Valmore. Verlaine’s model also opened the door for the textual practice of commented anthology, where the implications of anthological mediation are clear to see. An example of the matchless fortune and expansion into Latin American literature of Verlaine’s anthological model, influential in turn for Peninsular modernism, is a catalog of authors like Rubén Darío’s Los Raros (The odd ones, 1896), which shares its predecessor’s taste for poetic eccentricity and marginality. In another exemplification of the link between biography and anthology, Los Raros can be defined as a dictionary of names out of alphabetical order or a modernist fusion of razós and “damned” lives of the poets Leconte de Lisle, Verlaine, Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, Leon Bloy, Jean Richepin, La Rachilde, George d’Esparbes, Laurent Tailhade, Eduardo Dubus, Edgar Allan Poe, Edgar Moréas, Lautréamont, Max Nordau, Théodore Hannon, Eugénio de Castro, Fra Domenico Cavalca, Augusto de Armas, José Martí, and Henrik Ibsen. The progressive protagonism of the authorial function in modern anthologies is a process closely linked to the projection, alluded to above, of an awareness of temporal distance between the literary past, mediate or immediate, and the present of the anthologizing. This awareness is often incorporated and reflected in the prologues and other paratexts of the anthologies. This deferred temporality, characteristic of modernity’s understanding of history, is manifested in the very proclivity of the anthological phenomenon toward including, in its paratexts, the textual device of literary history. The pressure for historical legitimization characteristic of peripheral literatures makes them even more sensitive to this link between literary history and literary selection, so characteristic of the modern poetic anthology.

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One more piece of evidence we can offer to endorse the modernity of the anthology form, closely linked to the previous remarks — and which, like them, must be taken in a more gradual, rather than oppositional sense — is the prevalence of the selective principle over the accumulative principle in the structural logic of the material presented. Indeed, in all forms of compilation, ancient and modern, we can see the concurrence of a series of principles we will examine in the next section. Selection, ordering, and cataloguing are, perhaps, the most relevant. But while the concept of tradition as an uninterrupted flow, and the imitative orientation of the classical progymnasmata and of medieval pedagogy promoted an accumulative understanding of the work of compilation, the deferred conception of the literary past, the symbolic relevance of the figure of the author, and the use of literary history as a narrative of national identification seem to support the preeminence of selective vectors. In relation to the principle of selection, and coming from the theory of art, Aloïs Riegl (2007) has reflected on the complex relationships between cultural modernity and the cult of monuments. Riegl concluded that the tendency to conserve certain symbols, closely linked to the desire of collectors, was one of the most visible effects of the modern establishment of a new temporality. As in so many other aspects, in its relationships with monuments, modernity shows itself as a historical process of simultaneous positivity and crisis. The very attempt to preserve the cultural past from time, by the conservation of a series of “emblematic” symbols, constitutes a denial of the actuality of this very past. There is a need to save that which is no longer felt to be ours, but which, in some way, must be represented as our own. In another sense, modernity’s tendency toward a constant monumentalization of culture tends to weaken what Walter Benjamin called the “aura” of works of art, in a process that Michel Melot, paraphrasing Valéry, has called the “confusion of monuments”: Paul Valéry distinguished between buildings that sing, those that speak and those that remain silent. Monuments are buildings that have gone silent. However, everywhere, we speak of nothing else. The word “monument,” far from being rare, has become common use […] Everything becomes a monument, as circumstances or fashion dictates. (1999, 8)

The institution of museums also seems the ideal framework to explore many of the problems affecting the preservation, selection, and ordering of certain goods, activities that define the relationship of the modern state with cultural heritage and which, with quite similar effects, appear in anthological practice. Of course the parameter of modernity, since it is a rather broad notion, presents a series of additional problems when it is projected onto the literary histories of given cultural formations without state, traditionally (re)presented as peripheral and discontinuous. Although, to give an example, recent Catalan historiography tends to understand by “Modern Catalan Literature” post-Renaissance and pre-Enlightenment literature (i.e., the period that much earlier had been called Decadència or even Segles Foscos, a term quite similar in many ways to the Galician Séculos Escuros), I believe that in both Galician and Catalan literature, modernity does not become an object of historiographical-literary representation until the Renaixença and the Rexurdimento. Hence the fact that the corpus with which I have chosen to work includes mainly works published from the second half of the nineteenth century to now. It is obvious that, just as in other literatures in the European geocultural sphere, in Galicia and even more pronouncedly in Catalonia, the Enlightenment meant putting into practice multiple taxonomical enterprises, which, at least at first glance, share many defining features with anthologies.

The anthology as instrument of mediation387 Take, for example, in the Galician case, the more or less systematic compilation of paremiological literature by Father Sarmiento, in works such as the Catálogo de voces y frases de la lengua gallega (Catalog of Galician words and idioms) and the Colección de voces y frases gallegas (Anthology of Galician words and idioms), compendia of much interest from an ethnological, linguistic, and botanical perspective. And it is important to stress the typological proximity of anthologies with other, apparently distant modes of collection, like the catalog, the index, or the dictionary. Indeed, the compendium and the classification, modes of transmission of knowledge and of preservation of the wisdom pertaining to a particular field, are two methods characteristic of modern rationality, already present in the Enlightenment movement and in its interest in typological ordering. Given all this, and as I have already noted, in defining the anthological phenomenon as a clear manifestation of cultural modernity one must include the presence of the national question, which emerges in Galicia and Catalonia, as we know, in the mid-nineteenth century. At least since the Renaixença and the Rexurdimento, anthologies of poetry begin to take shape as instruments for modeling imaginary communities. Take, for example, in close connection to what I have discussed here, the fact that the romantic ideology of Volkgeist was of chief importance in the articulation, institutionalization, and conceptualization of European literatures. One can safely say, then, that notions such as history, literature, nation, or national literature should be present in any analysis of the anthological phenomenon.

The articulation of a critical field: Literary canon and anthological mediation Until the 1990s, the literature on the anthological phenomenon was not a cohesive body of reflections. It is obvious that this interest in anthologies had much to do with the emergence of the canon as a leading issue in contemporary literary theory, especially in the American academic context. However, it is striking that the approaches to anthologies as an object of study, though they have many points of contact between them, are not structured in the usual way for a critical tradition, if we understand “tradition” as a series of practices and analytical discourses that can serve as a common methodological framework and favor references between scholars and studies in a given area of knowledge. We find ourselves, thus, before a scarcely articulated field of knowledge, which lacks visibility as an area of study even among the scholars who have given it their attention. So much so that, from the point of view of this critical tradition, or “non-tradition,” the very concept of “anthological phenomenon” is incongruent. Most of the time, in these studies, anthologies are understood and presented in terms of an atomic and individual analysis, which does not recognize their belonging to, nor even the existence of, a broader sociocritical framework. At the same time, paradoxically, the centrality of the literary canon on the horizon of literary studies these last few decades has doubtless influenced the ancillary status and the methodological dependence that has implicitly been attributed to the anthological phenomenon in some critical works. Thus, in the majority of the analyses that deal with the relationship between anthologies and processes of canonization, anthologies are treated as “examples” that allow scholars to refute (or, more often, to endorse) their starting hypotheses. Until recently, the scholar of the anthological phenomenon had three bibliographical sources, limited in more than one sense. Firstly, there were anthologies themselves, with their

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paratextual apparatus, which, therefore, became simultaneously primary and secondary sources, with all the objections (the paradox of the mediating observer) that this concurrence carries with it. Secondly, there were reviews of individual anthologies into which, incidentally, broader remarks on the reach of the anthological phenomenon made their way. And lastly, and in fewer cases, there were articles, collections of essays, or monographs dedicated wholly and specifically to the object of study “anthology.” Among these last, let us highlight, for its close link to processes of literary mediation, the contribution of Barbara Benedict (1996). Her monograph is already a classic reference on forms of literary selection in Great Britain (especially, early modern miscellanies of the sixteenth and seventeenth and anthologies of the eighteenth century). Benedict’s main objective is to elucidate the function of anthologies in the social construction of the figure of the modern reader. In her opinion, historically, anthologies played a role of mediation between individual readers and the literary culture of a given community, contributing to the legitimization of literature as art, the selected texts as canonical literature, and reading as a critical activity. In her own words, “[a] nthologies sell texts of choice and the choice of texts” (Benedict 1996, 3). The role of mediating mechanisms that she attributes to anthologies is well reflected in the following paragraph, where Benedict, while stressing that the transmission of literary culture is a social process, acknowledges an individual margin of decision in the shaping of literary tastes, a margin favored by anthologies themselves: [anthologies and miscellanies] as collections represent a bridge, however frail, interconnecting publishers, editors, authors, and readers, they consolidate a consensus of literary values; at the same time, they enfranchise individual readers to pursue their own taste regardless of the consensus. (1996, 212)

An important precedent in the autonomous recognition of anthologies is the contribution of Amadeo Quondam (1974). His offering, situated in the structural analysis of the cancionero form, anticipates many subsequent post-structuralist studies, due to his consideration of sociological factors. His entire conception of the anthological phenomenon is marked by his realization that anthologies function as instruments of mediation. Hence his insistence on the fact that, with respect to other “primary” mechanisms of literary selection, the mechanisms of canonization favored by anthologies operate at the second degree: “Anthological selection is always (it is essential to acknowledge this, although it may seem obvious) a second-degree selection: it operates, that is, on already-selected material” (Quondam 1974, 15). Additionally, his interest in Petrarchian women’s cancioneros, which he considers an example of anthological series, is also an anticipation of the critical orientation that deals with the relationship between feminine subjectivity and anthologies.

Cataloguing, collection, and selection As a textual device, the anthology form can be characterized with respect to the principles of cataloguing, collection, and selection, which I will attempt to describe below. Cataloguing refers to the way in which the anthologized units are preserved and ordered according to a pre-determined editorial plan, generally based on a hierarchical structure. The act

The anthology as instrument of mediation389 of cataloguing implies, above all, the production of categories of classification for the assembled texts, and allows us to explain the typological dimension of the anthology form, favorable to establishing divisions and subdivisions for the presented material. In this sense, the cataloguing principle is deeply linked to the sphere that Jacques Derrida (1995) called “archive,” a category that he attempts to ascribe not only to the anamnestic sphere of temporality, in order to link it to the principles of authority and hierarchy. In a prologue to the essay Mal d’archive. Une impression freudienne, which is presented as a loose sheet, separated from the body of the book but at the same time, inserted in it, Derrida wonders: Must we not begin by distinguishing the archive from that to which we reduce it too often, in particular the experience of memory and the return to origins, but also the archaic and the archeological, memory or excavation, in short, the search for lost time? Exteriority of a place, topographical mise en oeuvre of a technique of consignment, constitution of a body and a place of authority (the archon, the arkheîon), that is, often the State, and even a patriarchal or fratriarchal State, that would be the condition of the archive. It never surrenders, then, during an act of intuitive anamnesis that would resuscitate, living, innocent or neutral, the originarity of an event. (1995, 1–2; translated from French, for it does not coincide with the English version)

From the historical point of view, the existence of a cataloguing principle in anthologies allows us to trace their origin, as we have noted, in the paradigm of Enlightenment knowledge. In the words of Yvette Sánchez: Scholarly, systematic interest (classification above esthetic value) in collecting, differentiating and specializing, only became institutionalized mid-way through the eighteenth century, when we went beyond the mere imitation of the given order of nature in cabinets of curiosities and aspired to an investigation of hidden laws and causal nexus through a scientific tendency that established botanical gardens, zoos and museums of natural science. (1999, 29)

Turning to Michel Foucault’s (1972) archeological perspective, associating the anthological instrument with the cataloguing principle is, ultimately, indebted to a project of ordering knowledge articulated around a belief in universal reason and supported by the transcendentalism of the knowing subject. Based on the Wittgensteinian notion of “language games,” Foucault comes to speak of “truth games” to explain the conversion of statements into rules of transcendental knowledge. In contrast to Louis Althusser, who establishes an epistemological break between science and ideology, for Foucault the study of the politics of truth that govern disciplinary fields allows us to show their dependence with respect to the powers that be. In the area of research that, as a tribute to Nietzsche, he dubbed genealogical, Foucault aims to prove that the cataloguing of knowledge comes from the notion of discipline, a process of mediation that links power to knowledge and that is projected in a visible way, especially through the device of exams, in institutions like academic institutions, hospitals, barracks, and factories. In light of this filiation between anthologies and disciplinary practices, consider the basis of some criticism directed at the anthology form and other social institutions that have similar roles of conserving and organizing our cultural heritage, such as museums. The conflicting voices of André Malraux (1951) and Paul Valéry (1960), on the subject of museums, are well known. In contemporary thought, the criticism of the all-encompassing pretensions of classification devices hinges on a larger project based on revealing the instrumental reason inherent to philosophical modernity. From this perspective, a typology can be viewed as a sphere where knowledge

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is indissolubly tied to power. It is in this context of radical questioning of technocratic ratio, so often applied by the thinkers of the Frankfurt School, that the criticisms that various authors have systematically directed against the current devices of the divisio scientiae become most meaningful. According to this type of analysis, in mass media societies, the devices of discursive distinction are based on the submission of the disciplines of knowledge to the demands imposed by the alliance of economy and technology. The stalled and inevitably fallible categorical network of many anthological projects hearkens back to the Chinese encyclopedia alluded to by Borges, who wished to convert into a parable the paradox of the infinity and finitude of human knowledge. As classificatory devices, governed by the cataloguing principle, anthological texts combine the desire to constitute a complete series and a permanent seriality, which textually embodies the frustration of this potentiality. Each one of the fragments that make up the set into which each anthology is transformed, in a way, is structurally subjugated to this pretension of totality. The dialectic between the part and the whole in anthological discourse — modern correlate of the tension between unity and variety characteristic of the Renaissance and Baroque florilegios and cancioneros — has given rise to aphorisms like that of Claude Roy, for whom “it would be difficult to conceive of a God who composed anthologies.” Without necessarily postulating a theology (positive or negative) for anthological discourse, it is certain that its noticeable protagonism in the construction of hierarchies, even at the expense of subjugating textual and authorial identities to sometimes forced categorizations, signifies the phenomenon’s globalizing and, in a way, monological vocation, in contrast to the usual understanding of anthologies as fragmentary bodies. Referring to libraries, Roger Chartier (1994b) alludes to this conflict between the obligatory finitude (vita brevis) and the desire for infinity (ars longa), when he acknowledges that the different meanings attributed to the term “library” manifest one of the tensions characteristic of early modernity. On the one hand, a universal library, from the perspective of the order of knowledge, could only be intangible, and, thus, the catalogs, nomenclatures, and inventories would act as reductions. On the other hand, any library located in a finite space can only offer a fragmented picture of the totality of accumulable knowledge. In conclusion, for Chartier, the irreduceable distance between inventories, ideally exhaustive, and collections, necessarily partial, was lived as intense frustration. The collection principle, to which Chartier alludes when he refers to accumulable knowledge, appears every time a set of units are connected around two rules: the rule of no addition and the rule of functional homology. (I am summarizing and reformulating the comments of Susan Mary Pearce [1992] on the collection principle as it relates to museums. Doc Pertinaz [1996] wrote a monograph on collecting, which highlights the valorizing and even sublimating dimension of including an object in a series.) In keeping with the non-addition rule, which explains why a whole cannot be defined solely as the sum of its parts, a collection of texts would imply a qualitative leap with respect to a simple group of texts. The non-addition principle, along with the maxim of completeness, is one of the basic postulates of Aristotelian mereology, which explains the transfer from a functional state to another state, based on the quality of emergence. In Western thought, mereology gave issue to a great number of models based on qualitative parameters, such as heterogonies or emergent structures. I should stress that very often, this postulate underlies a large part of literary theories of a systemic orientation. Thus, in his famous study on Western poetry, Lubomír Doležel (1990) carried out an analysis of Aristotelian contributions to the theory of tragedy starting from the field of mereology, the main logical method of

The anthology as instrument of mediation391 systems theory. The productivity of mereological models derives from their solid base, in chains of inference, of division, and of axiomatic derivation. The systemic and exhaustive character of Aristotle’s construction is related, according to Doležel, to its stratified construction, which starts from higher-level categories (that is, the most abstract) and descends progressively to the lower categories. The rule of the functional homology of units refers, on the other hand, to the way in which a series of texts becomes established in an order dominated by analogical relationships. As Victor I. Stoichita (1993, 119) affirms, in reference to the structure of paintings, “each element relates to the whole which contains it and defines it.” While the cataloguing principle was mainly related to the categorical dimension of anthologies, the collection principle has to do with the way in which the decontextualization and recontextualization of poems can generate significant relationships not originally predicted by the users. The inclusion of a text in an anthology implies, furthermore, awarding value, or, if you prefer, attributing to the poem (and to the poet) an axiological bonus. Collections, thus, are linked to processes of valorization and revalorization of given goods. In cultural contexts like the Galician or Catalan, affected by a historical depreciation of their repertoires, this mechanism can have specific echoes that one can liken to what Krzystof Pomian (1978, 35–36) calls sémiophores. According to Pomian, sémiophores are objects that an individual or a group invests with a high symbolical value, attributing to them a significance and value unknown in other cultural contexts. Take, for example, the use of legal, notarial, and ecclesiastic documents as integral units in Antonio de la Iglesia’s anthology El idioma gallego. Su antigüedad y vida (The Galician language. Its antiquity and life, 1886). Or, in the Catalan sphere, the power of an argument used in the prologues of some anthologies, to the effect that the anthologists thought it necessary to put “historical” criteria before “esthetic” criteria when selecting the texts to be anthologized. From a historical standpoint, the emergence of the collection principle in contemporary Western culture has something to do with the superimposition of the nineteenth-century value of antiquity over the Enlightenment paradigm of the mirabilia: New and never-before-seen things are not preserved as of the eighteenth century — the age of museums — but rather, what is old. That is to say that the flip side of the modern culture of innovation is the ever-quicker expiry and necessary elimination of objects by forgetting them, neutralizing them or discarding them for lack of space and time. We must create space for the new in our waste-producing society which, as compensation, must lead to a culture of conservation, of continuity, because otherwise the innovative would overwhelm us. We begin to protect, take care of, respect what is put out of service, to collect the past, the gone, the forgotten, the threatened. We have never thrown away as much, we have never kept as much as we do today. We live in the age of warehouses of elimination (garbage) and of conservation (museums). As quickly as the new becomes old, faster still can the old become innovative. (Y. Sánchez 1999, 38–39)

Lastly, selection is a process of the generation of contrast and relevance, among the members of the paradigm and between the members of the paradigm and the units not included in it. In catalogs, the hierarchy ensured the structuring of the categories and of the types included around a common axis. In collections, hierarchy emerged as a result of a non-additive understanding of the units. In contrast, as regards the principle of selection, so important in socio-literary institutions like prizes, competitions, and contests, hierarchy is an effect of the relationships between the anthological device and the “exterior” space it takes as a referent.

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Let us take as an example to illustrate the foregoing the volume Escolma de poesía galega. Escola medieval galego-portuguesa (Anthology of Galician poetry. The medieval GalicianPortuguese school, 1952), by Xosé María Álvarez Blázquez, with an introduction by Manuel Rodrigues Lapa. This example is pertinent because of the consideration given to the Middle Ages in twentieth-century Galician historiography, a period understood and presented as an aetas aurea ill-fatedly interrupted by the process of decadence established during the Séculos Escuros (Dark Ages). In fact, terms such as Rexurdimento and Renaixença only achieve full significance if they refer back to a Golden Age that they are able to “bring to the present.” The potentialities of the anthological device in the process of actualization of the literary past are praised in Manuel Rodrigues Lapa’s prologue. Far from requiring that linguistic parameters dominate over esthetic ones in the anthology, Rodrigues Lapa extols Xosé María Álvarez Blázquez’s work, basing himself on his dual poet-anthologist profile and considering that the artistic dimension of the selection would be the greatest guarantor of success in the process of “returning to the present, complete and revived, this enchanted world of yore”: Through happy coincidence, the author of this ESCOLMA is also a poet, familiar with the old troubadour lyricism and also influenced by it. Hence the special character of the collection: dull erudition was happily replaced by the esthetic judgement of the work of each artist; and there is no doubt that in this sense the author produced a good and useful work, characterizing the style and tendencies of the various troubadours. From that we can conclude that only a poet, or a scholar, is in a position to understand certain delicate things about our medieval artists. It was that knowledge that certain novelists interested in our ancient lyricism lacked. The tools of the trade are not enough, which, incidentally, are adjusted and modern; sympathy, freshness of spirit, liveliness of imagination are also indispensable for returning to the present, complete and revived, this world of yore. (Álvarez Blázquez 1952, 8–9)

The largely mythical character attributed to the Middle Ages in the Galician cultural imaginary left profound traces on the anthologies that took that period of the literary past as their object, a period reduced in this anthology to the Galician-Portuguese poetic output of the thirteenth century. This mythologization explains, on one hand, how at a given point in the development of postwar literary discourse, the medieval Cancionero — a lyric corpus that, in its own constitution, already included a certain idea of conscious selection — became a poetic anthology. Álvarez Blázquez (1952, 11) himself remarks as much: “Considering that the Cancioneiros were already in their own time imbued with an important anthological sense, compiling from them becomes, precisely, a complicated task of selecting among the selected.” This resourceful dimension of the Escolma de poesía galega. Escola medieval galego-portuguesa, which equips it to project is selections onto a previous compilatory set, makes it a most obvious example of the selective power of anthologies, defined once as the “art of limits.” The anthological device, moreover, has the capacity to refer to an “outside the text,” to which the anthologist must allude to defend the validity, or at least the opportunity, of the anthologized material. In this sense, Álvarez Blázquez’s prologue explicitly sketches an axiological table of three degrees in which, on the continuum of the Galician-Portuguese literary tradition, preference is given to the cantigas de amigo (considered the most “popular” and “authentic” of the Cancioneiros) over the cantigas de amor, and to the cantigas de amor (by virtue of their theme, which is universal and ideologically “harmless”), over the cantigas de escarnio:

The anthology as instrument of mediation393 We cannot deny that it was in this fertile ground that we wanted to do the best collecting, because everyone knows that there are the lyric essences of the land, whose precious sap springs forth to the world of poetry on the lips of the “amiga” who sings, as though they were the scarlet petals of the old traditional roses. This means that the great faith put in the cantigas de amigo in this collection is the result of a conscious preference. We did not refuse, by this choice, to walk the well-traveled paths of the cantiga de amor — a universal and perennial theme of poetry — nor through the overgrown forest of the escárneo or the maldicer, covered with the wild roots of our race […] Sadly, we had to reject many authentic lyrical pieces, whose abandonment can only be justified by the reiteration of thought and characteristic forms that they would bring, although such isolated pieces have their own value. Another attraction that is difficult to overcome is that which brings with it or combines the coarse and rude insults, and the fortunate achievements, graphic expressions and fine psychological shades, in a poetic body of strong expressive vigour, worthy of the best realist literature […] For these reasons, you will understand that the collector must read elsewhere the majority of the escárneos and maldiceres in a book, like this one, destined for a wide readership. (Álvarez Blázquez 1952, 11–12)

As we can see, in the exemplification of the principles of cataloguing, collection, and selection, which I consider key to be the explanation of the anthological device, it is possible to turn to anthologies that belong to a broad and varied time arc, without having the context of production and reception invalidate the generic functioning of these principles. In my opinion, cataloguing, collecting, and selecting are, in equal measure, activities that derive from the “anthologist” function, in the modern compilation form that I have been describing up until now, and, though methodologically they can be separated to show their functions, in anthological practice, the three devices show their convergence. In this context, it may be useful to start from the framework established by Reinhardt Koselleck, which refers to three historiographical activities (see Chartier 1994a): the history of accumulation (Fortschreiben), the history of notation (Aufschreiben), and the history of rewriting (Umschreiben). When the anthological device is oriented toward “accumulation,” the function of specific examples tends to be that of compiling and cataloguing the literary tradition. When the device is oriented toward “notation,” the privileged function is to assemble, within the framework of a collection of texts, the anthologized authors and poetic lines. Finally, “rewriting” implies an emphasis on the selection principle, as a mechanism of hierarchization of the poets and poems. The accumulative conception of historiography favors the structured compendium of the anthological material, such that the cataloguing principle prevails over the collection and selection principles. If the anthological phenomenon appears, as a whole, to be governed by that tendency, that could indicate a low level of systemic autonomy. Following from Pierre Bourdieu, Xoán González-Millán (2000) established, for Galician literature, three criteria for determining the level of autonomy of a literary field: discursive specificity, national legitimization, and academic support. The tendency toward accumulation would explain, for example, the archivistic character of many anthologies of the Rexurdimento and the Renaixença, in which it seems more important to guarantee the preservation of the texts and to devise strategies for ordering their literary heritage than to hierarchize some fragments, authors, or genres over others. Speaking of the Rexurdimento, an example that illustrates this tendency very well is the editorial plan of the

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unfinished anthology (1862) begun by Manuel Murguía, chief ideologue of Rexionalismo — a political movement that, in the twentieth century, would give rise to modern Galician nationalism. Firstly, the historian divides the texts into three linguistic groups. Secondly, he distributes them according to chronological criteria, and only thirdly does he attribute them to their authors. When the anthological device privileges the active rewriting of tradition, the selection principle prevails over the cataloguing and collection principles. If the anthological phenomenon appears, as a whole, to be governed by this tendency, that may indicate a certain degree of systemic autonomy, or, at least, the existence of a level of energy that, to use Iuri Lotman’s terms, could even come down to an “explosion.” In many cases, in this type of offering, there is a strong underlying commitment to the innovation of the repertoire, a commitment that can be seen in anthologies of the type “the worst poems,” in commented anthologies, in author anthologies, and in certain generational or group-based anthologies, like those one might call “manifesto-anthologies.” Lastly, when the anthological device prioritizes an establishing (for Koselleck, a notational) concept of historiography, the collection principle becomes dominant, and selection and cataloguing fade into the background. From a systemic perspective, the prevalence of the collection principle would indicate a standard or “zero degree” of systemic autonomy. The anthologies consulted, to which I will return below, allow us to illustrate this tendency.

Transformation and mediation in anthologies Explaining the diversity and variability of the anthological phenomenon means respecting its social nature. It is for this reason as well that literary theories based in pragmatism and empiricism are the most favorable for characterizing the ways anthologies function. Despite the fact that this link between empirical theory and experimental methods limits, in my opinion, the reach of Siegfried Schmidt’s proposal (1982), the NIKOL group has offered some starting points for understanding the social function of anthologies. As we know, for Schmidt, the structure of “the field of social performance LITERATURE” is defined by the four basic roles of communicative performance, that is, production, mediation, reception, and transformation of literary communication. These roles are played by individuals or by groups of individuals and, in correlation with the systemic-functional nature of the theory, NIKOL gives particular relevance to the multiple relationships that are formed between these vectors. Furthermore, to not be accused of immanentism, the theory stresses that the synchronic profile of the roles is due to a “specific history of socialization” that has made them so. On the other hand, each one of these fields deserves particular consideration. The direction of the continuum of production/mediation/reception/transformation, which in the most synthetic Jakobsonian model had a certain causal nature, is not dominated here by the temporal logic of continuity. The joint action of the performance roles is what allows us to report on the global functioning of the system, at the same time that, from a methodological point of view, each one of the roles can be isolated and characterized in terms of agency, systems of presuppositions, situations, strategies, actions, and results. (Starting from precisely this four-dimensional conception of the literary system, Cabo Aseguinolaza [1992] and Casas [1994] are responsible for two theoretical projections in which given problematic concepts — that of genre, in Cabo

The anthology as instrument of mediation395 Aseguinolaza’s case, and that of generation, in Casas’s — are presented in the light of the processes of production, mediation, reception, and transformation or post-processing.) Of the four fields of performance described, the study of anthologies requires us to consider, above all, the roles of transformation and mediation, areas in which the other systemic vectors are reconciled or opposed, vectors which usually operate jointly and which take on greater or lesser emphasis, as we will see, depending on the editorial strategies adopted by the agents. Let us examine first the point to which the anthological phenomenon is limited to the sphere of literary transformation. In his valuable approach to anthologies, Claudio Guillén (2005), compared the status of the anthology with that of a poetry “super-reader.” In Siegfried Schmidt’s terminology, “super-reader” is equivalent to “transformer.” Indeed, Guillén sees in the anthology a space of intersection for the coordinates of author and recipient. Through the decontextualization and recontextualization of the textual units, this space makes possible the conception of anthological “transcription” as an exercise of active rewriting. That is also why in some anthologies where the selection is made by one agent and the paratexts by another, in the attribution of roles to authors, the person responsible for the selection is put into the category of author. That is what happens, for example, in Just Cabot’s anthology Els iniciadors de la Renaixença (The initiators of the Renaixença), with a prologue by Nicolau d’Olwer, where, in a clear attribution of superauthorship, we read, “text per Just Cabot” (1928, 3). It is highly significant that, fairly frequently, Schmidt acknowledges the difficulties in clearly separating the processes of transformation and reception, a difficulty that is resolved with the help of sequential-type parameters, such that, in case of doubt, transformation is considered a process that always follows reception. The work of decontextualization and recontextualization carried out by the anthologist on the units that make up the body of the anthology can likewise be considered an example of transformation. In this regard, Schmidt (1982), who never actually refers explicitly to anthologies as modes of literary transformation, establishes a link between the role of transformation and the movements of selection and combination. It is this way from the moment the NIKOL group acknowledges that, from a structural point of view, the linguistic action of transformation is carried out as a set of operations of selection and combination by the linguistic transformers. Also, one of the most interesting aspects of the functioning of anthologies is the way in which they present processes of valorization and valuing of their objects. Schmidt himself often presents the task of the transformers in axiological terms, a fact which allows us to attribute the same condition to the anthology. In the Catalan case, Joan Triadú’s (1951) emphasis on the need for the anthology to assume the function of critic of taste, orienting reading and hierarchizing the poetic directions presented, is highly revealing of this role of axiological transformation, very present in all critical or commented anthologies. The description of the operations of transformation allows us to analyze the way in which certain processes that affect the preparation of anthologies are textualized in their paratexts. Acts such as “condensing” (i.e., summarizing the anthologized material), “describing metatextually” (i.e., giving technical facts that describe the corpus in detail), “valuing” (i.e., judging from a critical-literary perspective), and “explaining” (i.e., preparing a hermeneutic comment) are some of the axes that structure the initial paratexts of anthologies. The presence or absence of these clues allows us to identify the method of reading foreseen by the anthologizing authorities, and even the type of recipients implicitly postulated. For example, metatexual descriptions in anthologies meant for school use usually include glossaries of terms that clarify the meaning of

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scholarly terms, medieval terms, or technical poetic terms in the texts and the paratexts. Albert Planelles and Francesc Vernet’s Catalan anthology speaks volumes on this point (1990). On the other hand, in other cases, metatextual description — especially if its orientation is not pedagogical but, rather, documentary — can aim to justify the limits and attributions of the anthology, putting into perspective given hierarchies and revealing the principles of canonization implicit in the work. That is what occurs, for example, in the prologue to the Antologia general de la poesia catalana (General anthology of Catalan poetry), prepared by Josep Maria Castellet and Joaquim Molas, where the anthologists demonstrate their preference for the lyric (rather than the epic), for learned poetry (rather than popular poetry), and for esthetic values (rather than historical ones), in an explanation of the range of the project that reveals its hidden register: The Antologia is the fruit of many limitations, and therefore, renunciations. First of all, we had to go without, despite their richness, epic poetry and narrative and we have thus limited ourselves to the strictly lyrical […] Secondly, we eliminated, for motives of coherence, the grand tradition of popular poetry: in oral and in print transmission […] Thirdly, we attempted to strike a balance between historical and literary interests, and thus, we have only included those authors and poems which, decontextualized, maintain all their creative power or that, at least, maintain it in relation to their time period. (Castellet & Molas 1963, 5)

While I turned to the paratextual apparatus of anthologies to illustrate the operations I have described until now, the type of transformation that Schmidt calls “taking the minutes” can be exemplified by the body of texts that the anthology presents in a given layout. This operation is related to the labor of rewriting that, for Guillén (2005), was inherent to the anthologist’s trade, as recontextualizer of previous poems. Although units of analysis like the “quote” or the “fragment” have been the object of some theoretical offerings, the way in which the insertion of a text into a serial set enables the creation (and reception) of new associative networks has not yet been totally elucidated. Following Schmidt’s (1982) argumental logic, the poetic anthology would be a clear example of an “empirical problem case.” As an appendix to the section dedicated to the role of transformation, the author refers to the supposed theoretical irresolvability of all cases where the literary transformer — in this case, the anthologist — produces a communication of literary transformation that, in turn, demands consideration as a literary communication in itself. Except for individual anthologies, anthologies offer the peculiarity of taking various communications as the object of transformation. To our way of thinking, far from being obstacles, “problem cases” like these invite us to adopt a less restrictive conception of the fields of performance, whereby processes like “selection” and “fragmentation” can be considered as operations of literary transformation. Let us consider now the role of mediation. From a systemic standpoint, it seems easy to link the mediating nature of anthologies with given socioliterary dynamics and tendencies. For example, the creation of collections of poetry oriented preferentially toward the dissemination of anthologies indicates a relative autonomy of the anthological field. This degree of specificity attributed to the phenomenon is very noticeable, for example, in the publication schedule of La Renaixensa between 1878 and 1888, which saw five offerings devoted to selecting, collecting, and diffusing the Catalan poetic heritage of the nineteenth century, already being pitched at that time as “classic.” In contrast, in Galicia, historically, the publication of anthologies followed a more atomic model, and the volunteer work of various groups and individuals prevailed over the consolidation of editorial plans or specialized collections of poetry in the publication of anthologies.

The anthology as instrument of mediation397 Regarding the contemporary field of literature, it is very important to consider the strength of the book market in Catalonia (in both the Castilian and Catalan languages), with strengths and power relatively restricted to one language or the other, but also with zones of convergence where the anthological device becomes a mechanism of mediation. There is no comparison between this process and what is occurring in the Galician sphere, where, even when it offers translations of Galician texts into Castilian and English, an anthology such as A tribo das baleas (The tribe of whales; González Fernández 2001), published by Edicións Xerais de Galicia, must necessarily have a lower circulation than Sol de sal (Sun of salt; Villaronga 2001), published by DVD. And that is not counting the fact that, in Catalonia, the coexistence of two competing markets favors, at least potentially, the transfer of certain cultural products written in Catalan to a broader and more wide-ranging sphere. Another form of anthological mediation that we must examine, albeit in passing, is that which links the selection process with operations of literary translation. These anthologies, which, after Ulrich Weinreich (1968), we can call “diasystemic,” enable the transfer of linguistic and poetic identities in one textual repository. Since the 1990s (as early as 1966, Danuta Bienkowska published an interesting work on the transformations carried out by the translation into English of certain anthologies of Polish narrative), scholars’ interest in the phenomenon of anthological translation has become visible. In the 1980s, studies on translation and anthologies attempted to reflect the reception of a literature in a given system, preferably in quantitative terms. An example of this approach is Joseph P. Strelka’s article (1987) on the reception of Austrian literature in the US. Later, reception studies would move on to have a specific interest in the mechanism of translation, understood as a privileged sphere of cultural mediation. In that sense, anthological translation was defined as a “double mediation.” That is the definition supported by Alessandra Garusi (1995), who dealt with Italian translations of Arabic-language North African and Asian literature and by Iain Galbraith (2000), who studied German translations of Scottish poetry. Let us consider, within the field of early twentieth-century Catalan literature, the anthology of Italian anthologist Carlo Giardini (1926). In the prologue (1926, 54), he declares the great debt his publication owes to Alexandre Plana’s Antologia de poetes catalans moderns (Anthology of modern Catalan poets, 1914). This fact highlights one of the constants of diasystemic anthologization, that is, the influence that “intrasystemic” anthologies exert on anthologies that are “extrasystemic” to the literature being anthologized. It is important to note, moreover, that the diasystemic anthologizing mechanism cannot be reduced to the simple export and import of works and authors, but rather, and above all, it includes the projection of models of periodological interpretation and esthetic categorization. Neither Giardini’s anthology (1926) nor A. Schneeberger’s (1922) should be read as mere textual receptacles for translated Catalan poets and poems. Beyond this operation of poetic exchange they are establishing a series of symbolic identity links between Catalonia, Italy, and France, based on a postulated historical belonging to a Mediterranean horizon, and on the literary exercise of Neoclassicism. A Neoclassicism which, certainly, had nothing to do with the elective undercurrent of Rudolf Grossman’s (1923) anthological offering, Katalanische Lyrik der Gegenwart (Contemporary Catalan poetry). Returning to the premises of empirical theory, Schmidt distinguishes between direct and indirect mediation, acknowledging the closeness of the latter to the sphere of transformation, and acknowledging the difficulty in assigning certain poetic phenomena of social performance — he is thinking, for example, of recitals and public readings — to just one of the two fields. I believe

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that in anthologies, the interpenetration of the mechanisms of mediation and transformation occurs in a more noticeable way. It is obvious, for example, that the anthologist becomes a literary mediator when the poems that make up the textual body of the anthology are not chosen after their publication, but rather, are poems hitherto unpublished. That function of anthologies cannot be disregarded, and in some periods of the Catalan and Galician anthological phenomenon it played an important role. For Galician literature of the twentieth century, the role of Miguel González Garcés’s anthology (1978) in the dissemination of the poetry of Álvaro Cunqueiro is well known. The anthologist released texts that would again see the light, with substantial modifications, in the book of poems Herba aquí ou acolá (Grass here or there, 1981). The manifesto-anthologies of groups like Rompente (1976), Cravo Fondo (1977), and Alén (1977) assemble, often preceded by opening remarks, a series of poems that had not been previously published. Lastly, in these cases, mediation subordinates itself to operations of literary transformation and even becomes an editorial strategy capable of giving prestige or interest to a given anthological work. I believe it is very significant, in this sense, that some anthologies include a series of autopoetic texts commissioned ad hoc from the anthologized authors. The agents claim to be operating as mediators of a series of unpublished texts, and the autopoetic texts are, in that respect, publicized, highlighting the fact that they support and endorse the anthologized texts, which are thus remitted to the “authority” of their producers. The function of these materials in the general logic of the anthology, in short, is to endorse and support the literary transformation carried out by the agents. In fact, in the anthological phenomenon, in a process of mise en abîme, the role of transformation has turned as textualized strategies to all the roles of performance considered by Schmidt, not just that of literary mediation. An illustrative case of this deployment of the roles of performance in the generic matrix of literary transformation occurs in “consulted anthologies.” In this type of publication, the authorities responsible claim to renounce their “superauthorship” in favor of the recipients, supposedly transformed into producers of opinions and of anthological choices. The most standard process consists of delegating the work of selection to a series of authors or mediators (critics, professors, editors…) who have previously completed a questionnaire that claims to assess a (pre)determined state of opinion. The selection mechanisms of modern anthologies — which are, in short, mechanisms of division and hierarchy — are still fully operational here. Consider, for example, that the list of people who take part in the publication as givers of opinion are previously selected by the people responsible for the publication. In the terminology of empirical theory, the people responsible for the publication are “professional communicative participants,” a rank they share with the spectrum of people across whom the survey is carried out, at least when we are speaking of critics, translators, editors, or professors. The judgements passed by such participants, to use an electoral metaphor that is very appropriate in the court of public taste, become like “votes.” As a rhetorical strategy, editors of consulted anthologies take refuge in the fact that the selected agents are supposedly inherently “authorized voices.” Consequently, claiming to delegate to other poets and critics the work of anthologist of texts and authors, the person responsible for this type of publication becomes a compiler of formulated questions and consulted authors. It is useful to note here the strategies that the anthological device employs to render objective, in an attempt to dilute, if not to deny, the partiality inherent to operations of selection.

The anthology as instrument of mediation399 In Catalan literature of the 1970s, Jordi Castellanos’s Guia de la literatura catalana contemporània (Guide of contemporary Catalan literature, 1973) played a role similar to that of a consulted anthology. The work consists of a selection of fifty literary titles published between 1900 and 1970, accompanied by a critical study. The people responsible for the selection are six critics (Josep Maria Castellet, Joan Ferraté, Marià Manent, Joaquim Molas, Joan Lluís Marfany, and Joan Triadú), endorsed by a lengthy consideration of their merits. Before presenting the fifty works with their comments, the guide presents a longer list of preselected works, along with a “Quadre de les votacions” (Table of votes) that reflects the election process that led to the final selection. As regards contemporary Galician literature, Arturo Casas (2003a) was in charge of a consulted anthology that takes as temporal frame of reference the poetry of the previous twenty-five years. To prepare the publication, the author produced a questionnaire that he distributed to a very wide range of people with ties to the world of literature (poets, editors, professors, historians, critics, etc.). In the survey provided, Casas asked them to list up to ten titles of books of poems or poets that, in their opinion, best represented the development of Galician poetry since 1975. This work, that mitigated the dearth of this type of anthology in Galician literature, seems to confirm that in peripheral literatures, the make-up of the field of criticism sometimes needs reinforcement and compensation mechanisms, in which the anthological device can be very effective.

Cultural nationalism and school Isabel Clúa Ginés One of the most evident foci of literary mediation is, without a doubt, educational institutions. School is central as an institution that regulates, transmits, and perpetuates a corpus of knowledge but also, by definition, methods and educational values. The school system, thus, occupies an apparently contradictory position: on the one hand, it assumes asepsis to be a key value in knowledge, that is, its legacy lies in truth and rigor, and the system is the exclusive agent of transmission; on the other hand, its ideological function is plainly enunciated in its own definition as an educational and training institution, whose mission is to transmit not only knowledge but also values. Hence the fact that the influence of school on the body of knowledge it transmits is, by definition, slanted and marked by specific ideologies. Academic institutions, therefore, are normative institutions whose influence on the body of knowledge shapes the discursive universe of a community and invests it with the power of truth. Obviously, literary studies — insofar as they are a first-class symbolic material in which the community can see itself — are one of the locations where this oscillation between ideological intervention and its elevation to scientific truth is most materialized. The education system selects the texts that must be studied, that is to say, it configures a canon; it sets how these texts should be read, that is to say, it sets up an interpretive truth; it constructs a coherent series from these texts, that is to say, it distributes them within a historiographical framework and it is, most definitely, the place where the reception and (self-)interested use of these texts becomes a farreaching system. The casuistry of the influence of the education system on the reception and consumption of literary texts is never ending, and can be traced back to its very origins. Nonetheless, what interests me here is studying the intermediation of school in modern times, whose most striking characteristic is the adoption of cultural nationalism as an ideological discourse that is transmitted through the school system and reinforced by it. I will therefore refer exclusively to the presence of cultural nationalism in school and its consequences for the reception of literary texts, focusing, firstly, on the processes of formation of the modern Spanish identity: the presence of cultural nationalism was essential to the survival of the old European monarchies during the time of conversion to nation-states, as in the case of Spain and Portugal (Álvarez Junco 1996, 105) and it deserves, at the very least, to be considered as a discursive framework. Secondly, I will focus on the role of educational institutions in these processes and particularly on the consequences that this participation has on the organization and development of literary studies today. Although the birth of the idea of a nation and its development in political terms has been accepted as one of the driving forces of modern history, its operativity in cultural terms has not always been considered in the same way, despite the fact that its ubiquity and power far exceed those of political nationalism. As John Hutchinson (1994, 122) indicates, while the latter aims to ensure a state that represents the community, cultural nationalism is concerned with the idea of a “moral regeneration” of the community; that is to say, it is a discursive force that offers a collective identity, hence its ubiquity, which makes it pertinent to any place where a cultural identity is being presented, and not only in places where such a discourse has been couched in political doi 10.1075/chlel.29.33gin © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Cultural nationalism and school401 terms (the new nationalities of the nineteenth century, like German and Italian), or claims to have been (peripheral nationalisms and stateless nationalisms). The discussion of the concept of nationalism and its various aspects is extensive and complex. It concerns not only the distinction between cultural nationalism and political nationalism but also other debates and distinctions. (I refer readers to Benedict Anderson [1983], Ernest Gellner [1983], and Eric Hobsbawm [1990] as basic texts on the issue. Another useful compilation of materials and critical texts can be found on the webpage of The Nationalism Project: .) Next to the essentialist character attributed to discourse on nation — it is a discourse that, in principle, explicitly states communal and eternal essences — cultural nationalism is nonetheless a relatively recent force which, moreover, is organized into a coherent discourse despite the fact that it presents itself as a diverse collection of spontaneous manifestations of ethnicity, language, tradition, etc. That is, perhaps, its most notable characateristic, its tentacular nature, which infiltrates and permeates the most diverse collective spheres and which, ultimately, hides its vertical ideology, that is, its imposition of high culture on society: The cultural shreds and patches used by nationalism are often arbitrary historical inventions […] The cultures it claims to defend and revive are often its own invention, or are modified out of all recognition. (Gellner 1983, 55)

From this point of view, school becomes a privileged vehicle for the transmission and perpetuation of the “imagined political community” (B. Anderson 1983) that plagues nationalism and that ends up shaping a tradition that determines us: We are still the inheritors of that style by which one is defined by the nation, which in turn derives its authority from a supposedly unbroken tradition […] Defensive, reactive, and even paranoid nationalism is, alas, frequently woven into the very fabric of education. (Said 1993, xxv–xxvi)

The alliance between nationalist discourse and education can be seen in the processes of modernization of Peninsular states, where, during the nineteenth century, nationalist discourses flourished that would eventually lead them to assume a new political identity as modern nations. In that context, it is an aspect of “moral regeneration,” of which John Hutchinson speaks, that determines the use of nationalist discourse by the ruling classes; it is also this same project of regeneration that renders the educational institution the preferential location from which to consolidate and extend this new vision of the collective. The forms of nationalism in the Iberian Peninsula in the nineteenth century were asymmetrical; as Clare Mar-Molinero and Angel Smith (1996) indicate, in Portugal nationalist discourse solidified during the century, while in Spain centralizing forces and the search for a common image were questioned at the end of the nineteenth century with the emergence of peripheral nationalisms, which lent longevity and intensity to the late-century nationalist discourses. The rise in intervention in educational policy in Spain at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century must be understood within this framework — and also, of course, in the context of the struggle between political and ecclesiastical powers for control of education (see Lannon 2000 and Álvarez Junco 1996). Throughout the century, Spain was immersed in processes of massive cultural nationalization, of a search for a common national image that could serve as a collective referent. Such processes were carried out by all political forces, liberal and conservative, and obviously, inasmuch as the aim was to transmit this image to the largest possible number of subjects, regulation of school policy became an issue of capital

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importance. The implementation of the Pidal Plan, which centralized education in 1845, and the enactment of the Moyano Act, which universalized education in 1856, are not just evidence of the progressive modernization of Europe, but also clear proof of the control of the school system by political powers, in order to project a common national identity: Education was standardized and centralized by the 1845 Plan Pidal, introducing a national curriculum and centralized appointments system, and giving the State exclusive control of higher education, with Madrid University […] having a monopoly of higher degrees. Moyanos’s 1857 Education Act ensured that all the nation’s youth would (in theory) have a training citizenship by instituting compulsory, free primary school education to the age of 9, with curriculum and textbooks subject to the central approval. […] From 1855 to 1900, education was controlled by the Ministerio de Fomento, responsible for public works, for it was in every sense a branch of national development. (Labanyi 2000, 26–27)

But it is in the period between 1868 and 1931, and particularly, the Restoration (1875–1931), that we see most clearly the infiltration of nationalist ideology into the school system; Spain at the end of the nineteenth century was riddled with legislation that points to the organization of the school system as a privileged place to transmit a national identity. Let us examine some cases: in 1870, reading of the Constitution in schools was made mandatory; in 1892, the 12th of October was declared a national holiday and period of school holidays; in 1893, raising of the flag was made mandatory in schools; in 1920, Don Quixote was declared required reading, with a recommended 15 minutes of daily reading; in 1921, a Royal Order proclaimed the introduction of national symbols into schools (in this case, a portrait of the king) and, a year later, it was the portrait of Ramón y Cajal, recently awarded the Nobel prize, that made its way into classrooms. The awareness of school as a place to fortify a national image, which in that period was being contested by the emergence of peripheral nationalisms as well as by the colonial crisis, is clearly articulated in these examples. Furthermore, they all note the multiple elements that the national discourse used to render itself effective: from the introduction, dissemination, and recognition of political entities (the monarch or the constitution), to the rituals dedicated to the exaltation of the homeland (the raising of the flag or the declaration of the national holiday), with more subtle methods as well, like the reading of specific literary texts or the exaltation of the nation’s intellectuals. In fact, these subtle methods are the key element in the implantation of a common national image: the recognition of specific symbolic bodies as carriers of the essence of the nation. Jo Labanyi (2000) highlights, for example, the study of geography as a fundamental part of the processes of national recognition: the presence in the classroom of a map of Spain and the obligatory use of certain textbooks are obvious instruments in this process, but Labanyi goes even further and shows explicitly how innovative teaching methods, such as the field trips promoted by Giner de los Ríos in the Institución Libre de Enseñanza, ultimately serve a nationalist project that ends up configuring the Castilian landscape as the “national” landscape. Along the same lines of effective subtlety, one must understand the use of literature as an essential part of the nationalist discourse. In fact, the alliance of cultural nationalism and academic institutions is even more powerful in the case of the literary studies carried out by the school system. Itamar Even-Zohar affirms the centrality of literature (and “literature” in the broad sense, as a collection of texts to be read, listened to, or simply heard) in the constitution of collective identities, making it very clear that it is one of the most powerful instruments of socio-cultural power and cohesion:

Cultural nationalism and school403 It is thus my contention that it was “literature” which served as an ever-present factor of sociocultural cohesion in our society. This does not mean that it always was the major or sole factor, but perhaps it was the most durable one, and probably one which was most often combined with others […] Its ubiquity and longevity may be attributed to its institutionalization and conspicuousness. (Even-Zohar 1996, 42–43)

The author suggests, furthermore, that its capacity to act in the constitution of nations or organized cultural groups is a typical feature of European history. The importance of literature in nationalist ambitions has been discussed on numerous occasions: Timothy Brennan (1994) establishes a reciprocal relationship between nationalism and literature when he asserts that nationalism had a great influence on the development of literature and that, in turn, literature participated actively in the construction of the nation; John Hutchinson goes even further when he claims, “but if it is through the historian that one learns of the national destiny, the paradigmatic figure of the national community is the artist” (1987, 13). One obvious example of the symbolic character of the artist can be found in Portuguese nationalism, which used the tercentenary of poet Luís de Camões’s death (1880) as “an opportunity, skilfully exploited for propaganda purposes by the republican movement, to organize national festivities and to elaborate and strengthen the symbolism invested in the figure of the poet” (Freeland 1996, 54). The exaltation of Camões in Portugal, like the required reading of Cervantes’s novel in Spain, shows the skillful mobilization of an existing cultural heritage by the nationalisms in order to project a new, collective, unified image that would be key in the renewal of political structures and the modernization of each state. And school was precisely the place where this national image was supposed to consolidate and perpetuate itself, and where, in fact, it did. This brief review of the paths by which nationalism came to settle in the school system and articulate itself as a determining force in its regulation does not, however, speak to the implications of its potential as a form of literary intermediation. The levels on which it acted are complex: the first and most obvious is the organization of the curriculum, in which literary studies, even today, are limited to national literatures. Nonetheless, the infiltration of nationalism also reaches many other levels: the selection of authors and the construction, based on these pieces, of a coherent series which definitely projects collective characteristics that end up becoming a national essence. An obvious example of these operations is the configuration of the realist canon of Spanish literature from 1870 to 1890: as Labanyi clearly explains, it is at that moment that the myth that Spanish literature is realist par excellence is born. However, this discourse, which refers to an atemporal quality of literature, is perfectly anchored to the historical moment, such that this myth does not just legitimate a contemporary production as the expression of the nation, but also, inasmuch as realism is associated with the re-production of reality, as a consolidated national reality (Labanyi 2000, 13). Alongside the canonization of texts and authors, and the historicization oriented toward reproducing a national image, a biased reading of the texts and of authorial production is a fundamental element. Certainly, as mentioned above, the nationalist discourse follows a vertical course and is imposed from the dominant classes onto the masses; thus, the processes of canonization, historicization, and hermeneutics in service to a national image are born outside of the classroom but end up establishing and perpetuating themselves there, determining the profile and the contents of national literature and acting as a basic intermediation. Likely the most obvious case of the capacity of nationalist discourse as an intermediating force is the study of Peninsular literature of the end of the nineteenth century in schools. Stated

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thus it may not seem particularly revelatory; but it is easy to identify the manipulation of this literary corpus by looking solely at the statements that define it in the State teacher examination syllabus for “Modernism and the Generation of 98 as a Historical, Social and Esthetic Phenomenon” or in its formulation as part of the curriculum of Mandatory Secondary Education (according to Royal Decree 116/2004 of January 23). Indeed, the division of the literature of the end of the nineteenth century into two conflicting movements, 98ism and modernism, is an abundantly clear example of the way nationalism determines our understanding of a period, of artistic production, and of works. Moreover, it is a privileged example, in that we can see in it all the possible forms of intervention in a literary corpus. Obviously, the bare facts point to the invention (I use the term coined by Gullón 1969) of the Generation of 98 in 1913, by Azorín. That said, the fate of that denomination in the history of Spanish literature goes beyond the bare facts and reveals a series of interventions, mediated by nationalism and carried out in the school system, whose rhetorical aspects are complex. The first medium is, naturally, the very selection of this denomination, which took place much later, over the nomenclatures used at the turn of the century to refer to contemporary production, and which, as has been demonstrated, refer to the “old folks” and the “young folks” (Celma Valero 1989), and, to a lesser extent, to “modernism” and “turn-of-the-century” (Blasco 2000). The choice of this label, moreover, is linked to the choice of certain contents that give it relevance: the process of configuring the meaning of the “Generation of 98” is triple. The literary importance of the production that belongs to that label rests, in no fine terms, on political actions. As Javier Blasco indicates, after having reviewed the monographs and studies on the Generation, these political actions are: the impact of disaster, the interest in the history of Spain and its authentic character, and the preoccupation with a regenerative program. Evidently, hermeneutics are crucial for consolidating these contents. Specifically, a hermeneutics that is studied and perpetuated in the education system through two joint strategies: selective reading of the output of its members — that is to say, any output that cannot be read in that way is left aside; and slanted reading — in which interpretation depends on these previous interpretive principles — which gives meaning to the esthetic aspects, which, in turn, become a reflection of the political preoccupations of the period. All of these processes, whose result is the creation of a coherent discourse around this “real” fact, are generated at the highest levels of the academic institution, but it is at the lower levels — primary and secondary education, and undergraduate education — that they live and perpetuate themselves, despite the fact that at this stage of the game they are being questioned. Let us see an example: let us look at a book used in classrooms today and authored by wellknown Hispanists (Lengua castellana y Literatura. Bachillerato 2, Bosque et al. 2003). The book in question organizes the study of literature into genres, a principle that responds to an organic ideal of literature, in which the coherence of the literary system itself is preferable to a simple diachronic cut that the legislation proposes (the Royal Decree 117/2004 of the January 23, which sets the mandatory curriculum for undergraduate studies). Furthermore, there is no entry in the syllabus that refers to modernism and ‘98ism in opposition (contrary to the secondary education curriculum, where the dichotomy is noted in the Official State Bulletin itself, a fact that is highly significant). However, rhetorically, there is no doubt regarding the longevity of these constructs. Firstly, we use the denomination “Silver Age,” which appears to be a unifying concept, in contrast to

Cultural nationalism and school405 the fragmentation of the division between modernism and 98ism. Secondly, the Silver Age begins in 1898, a date where the only relevant event is political and not literary; a date, moreover, where the members of the Generation of ‘98 were far from being preoccupied with disaster and war. As Blasco documents, in 1897 Azorín does not seem very interested in Spain, its history and character; on the contrary, he even affirms that “the homeland is a prejudice” and that “it is maintained by force.” Similarly, in 1898, Unamuno is not exactly concerned about the unfolding of the war in Cuba, but rather, the object of his reflections is the military institution itself, which he abhors (Blasco 2000). It is even more interesting to observe the fate of the term in the rest of the textbook. Except for a small inroad in the historical introduction, the Generation does not appear anywhere. In fact, underneath the epigraph that bears its name, the text explicitly mentions the invention of the term by Azorín. However, the survival of the nationalist rhetoric that converts the members of the Generation of 98 into “ideological” writers — next to the vacuousness and formalism of the modernists — is obvious: under the genre “the prose of ideas” we only find Unamuno and Azorín, and among the themes tackled by them are mentioned “The problem of Spain” and “The search for signs of collective identity.” The presence of ideologically dense themes continues if we review the novelistic genre. Under the label “The modern novel or the novel of the Generation of 98,” an epigraph that appears to eliminate the opposition between the two, we find a rhetorical display that brings back the old dichotomies. Unsurprisingly, the text focuses on authors that publish in 1902 (that is, Baroja, Unamuno, Azorín, and Valle-Inclán), exalting them as restorers of the novel. However, while the text uses expressions like “social criticism” and “the existential crisis” in the commentary on El árbol de la ciencia (The tree of knowledge), and speaks of “Unamuno’s novel of ideas,” what is highlighted about Valle-Inclán is his “exquisite modernist prose” and Sonata de otoño (Autumn sonata) — the novel published in 1902 — is passed over in favor of Tirano Banderas (The tyrant Banderas), whose political criticism, obviously, is highlighted. What we have here is no more, no less than the conversion into school material of the entire conceptual apparatus that establishes the Generation of 98 as a valid group, based in turn on an axiological discrimination that Blasco defines in the following way: As the 98 is defined by its Spanishness, its virility, its ethic and density of thought, all that does not fit under that definition is disposed of with a vague reference to purely formal issues, taking for granted that, outside the ‘98, a literature with future influence and with a notable ideological dimension is impossible. (1993, 61)

In fact, the description of the group of 98 as a movement of “contents” and of modernism as a movement of “forms” is perhaps the most sophisticated element of reading of this period. Obviously, to confer validity on the Generation, one must contrast it with another antithetical movement, a literary landscape from which it stands out. However, the description of that other output turns out to be the key to all the operations of intervention of nationalist discourse, since it clearly reveals the base of the discrimination of Modernism. Let us return to our school materials. Modernism only occupies a significant place within the poetic genre, which is significant, but what is much more significant is the definition of the movement: “Poetic modernism was born in Latin America as a syncretic movement, influenced by various postromantic European schools, basically, the French movements of Parnassianism

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and symbolism” (Bosque et al. 2003, 229). In some way or other, in this statement, all the spectres that would activate the infiltration of nationalist discourse in the literary commentary of the period are present: the colonial question and the European question. This is not the appropriate place to enter into a discussion about what modernism is, but basically it can be defined in these two spheres: if we understand it solely within the margins of the Castilian language, historiography tends to reduce it to a poetic school led by Rubén Darío that eventually implants itself on the Peninsula; that is, in fact, how the book presents it. If we understand modernism from a supra-national point of view, we must understand it as a movement of esthetic renewal with solid and meaningful ideological foundations — epistemological doubt regarding the possibility of representing and expressing reality, and skepticism regarding the possibilitiy of adequately expressing any knowledge about the world (Fokkema 1984). The options, thus, do not seem adequate to make “national” production assume this character, since modernism demands a study that surpasses linguistic boundaries, or, in other words, it demands a comparative study. Understanding it as a “transatlantic transplant” (Cardwell 1985) is hardly short of humiliating, if we take into account the fact that nationalist rhetoric uses the Disaster and the loss of the colonies as landmarks. Focusing it toward the European sphere is not a better option either, since the route through which the European influence penetrated the Peninsula is, in fact, another Peninsular language: Catalan. Assuming a European perspective, therefore, implies assuming another difficult situation for nationalist rhetoric: the existence of peripheral nationalisms and the recognition of these traditions as forces of cultural mobilization that pervade Castilian literature. In fact, the emergent Catalan nationalist discourse clearly uses literature, and in this case, Modernisme, in the same way. Modernisme is also presented as a “Silver Age,” absolutely entrenched in educational programs, and is, ultimately, the mirror in which contemporary nationalism looks at itself. Curiously, Noucentisme, the institutionalized response in Catalonia, and, at the same time, the continuation of Modernisme, is much less fixed in the collective imaginary than modernist expression, although this current has a much more pointed political aspect (Terry 2000). In the Spanish case, the solution puts into motion, again, a series of processes of mediation in literary texts and in their presentation as a series. As I have already mentioned, it is emptied of content, or, better said, it is saturated with superficial content: while the themes of 98ism deserve attention and thorough consideration, the themes of modernism are presented as a veritable avalanche of vacuousness and are simply listed. At the same time, the sophistication of its forms is emphasized, but is also presented as a simple import: “The French influence brought the fashion of alexandrine verses, dodecasyllabic and eneasyllabic, although the popular octosyllable and hendecasyllable also continued to be used” (Bosque et al. 2003, 229). This statement seems to me to be a crystal-clear example of how far the fixation with creating and maintaining a national tradition trickles down to the lowest level of literary study: we are not talking here about metre — far from it; we are talking, rather, of the resistance of the indigenous tradition (the octosyllables and hendecasyllables refer to it) when faced with foreign innovations. It is exactly this type of rhetoric that sustains the explanation of modernism in the school system: modernism is an empty movement, one of formal innovation but lacking in content, and because of this, the Spanish expressions of it are a struggle to incorporate this esthetic corpus to Spanish tradition. And they do so successfully, if we believe statements like the following: “The

Cultural nationalism and school407 Spanish authors tempered the exoticism and the exuberance that came from Latin America” (Bosque et al. 2003, 229). We need not dig any deeper into the stereotyped image of the foreign that lies beneath this statement, because it is more than evident, but I do feel it opportune to show how it is this conceptual other — modernism — that finally generates and confers solidity on Spain’s own — the Generation of 98 — a paradox that expresses itself in the school system through another paradox. How else can we explain how, below the epigraph “Modern poetry,” the authors discussed at length are Antonio Machado and Miguel de Unamuno, who is presented below the subheading “Unamuno or indifference to modernism.” The mere fact that under the heading of a movement, the text includes as representive someone who does not follow it is the height of manipulation. However, it is much more interesting to observe how, after various paragraphs that list countless formal characteristics of modernism, Unamuno’s poetry is characterized as “the bare and sincere expression of his thoughts.” The dichotomies at work here cannot be clearer: next to the bareness and sincerity expressed by Unamuno’s classical metres, the imports and novelties of modernism represent disguise and artifice; next to the essential and authentic, are the superficial and the false. I could continue coming out with examples, but I believe that it is sufficiently clear how the eagerness to project a national image through literature is sustained through an enormous chain of intervention in school reading of the texts and authors of the turn of the century. The matter at hand is not to reveal that the Generation of 98 was an invention, as the criticism has already dealt with this aspect at length, but rather to pay attention to all the rhetorical mechanisms, in the service of the common national image, that mediate the reception of the texts and that are disseminated in schools: the fragmentation of the literary landscape into two conflicting tendencies is the most obvious; much more subtle and determinant are, nonetheless, the association of each tendency with certain genres, or the slanted reading of formal traits, under whose apparent neutrality lurk veiled statements whose nationalist traces are more than evident. We must not kid ourselves; under these rhetorical mechanisms, the literary image that is projected is not that of the chronological coexistence of two distinct esthetic paths, but rather, as Blasco describes well: Our blessedly different 98ers, uncontaminated by the perfidious epidemic of decadence that infected the rest of the literatures of the “unchosen” countries on the other side of the Pyrenees, were able to save the “national spaces” and, without succumbing to the effeminacies and the silly fickleness of the modernists, kept the “spirit of the Spanish people” ready to take up once more the honourable task of reconstructing the “empire” with great 98er strokes. Of course, at the turn of the century, nothing happened that way. (2000, 130)

Exactly how it happened is something we will never know, since the past is a variable place whose narration takes on one profile or another depending on the voice that is reconstructing it and of the fate of these voices. It is also true that the fortune of this interpretation of turn-of-the-century literature has its own history — in which appear figures from Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo to Guillermo Díaz Plaja, among many others; however, it is not my goal to enter into a discussion about historiography, but rather, to show how the school system becomes the recipient and transmitter of these discourses full of nationalism and, above all, how this ideology of the interpreters trickled down into the classrooms, and survived the interpreters themselves. It is not just a question of political manipulation of the school system, but a more complex process: of the presence of broader and more powerful narratives, like cultural nationalism, when

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it came to cementing other narratives, limited, in this case, to the literary and cultural spheres, and whose consequences Fredric Jameson (1981, 34) expresses clearly: Such master narratives have inscribed themselves in the texts as well as in our thinking about them; such allegorical narrative signifieds are a persistent dimension of literary and cultural texts precisely because they reflect a fundamental dimension of our collective thinking and our collective fantasies about history and reality.

These “master narratives” are always there; but it is in school that they become truth, shared knowledge, and transmitted legacy, and it is for this reason that we must consider much more deeply and in detail than in these pages the media, the processes, and the mechanisms that implant certain narrations in the educational curricula and, especially, how these narrations act as intermediaries in the reception of texts.

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country Origins of a literary subfield Ur Apalategi For many centuries, the Northern Basque Country (Iparralde) has been the main provider of Basque literature; however, since 1975, it has given way to the Peninsular Basque Country. Seeing the fast pace at which the other side of the France-Spain border is developing its literary and linguistic normalization in the new democracy (or, rather, in the post-Franco context), writers in Northern Basque Country (Iparralde means “north side”) have become aware of being in the periphery. The collective tools for literary normalization (such as the standardized language or euskara batua, language officialization, the cultural industry, television, awards, universities, and grants) belong to the new core of the Basque literary system, which merges with the administrative and political area of the Basque Autonomous Community (and to a lesser extent also with the Chartered Community of Navarre). As a consequence, the Basque literature history of Iparralde during the last forty years has consisted of a series of different and sometimes opposing strategies to gain visibility in the new literary center, which is becoming more and more distant. The aim of this essay is to describe the evolution of those textual strategies created to face its peripheral position.

The historical dominance of the Basque literature of Iparralde From a historical point of view, written Basque literature started in the sixteenth century, more precisely in 1545, when Bernat Etxepare published his poem collection Linguae Vasconum Primitiae (The first fruits of the Basque language) in Bordeaux. The book becomes a literary manifesto towards the end, where the author defines himself as the founder of a new literary tradition. This book can be considered the Basque counterpart of Joachim Du Bellay’s Deffence et illustration de la langue françoise (Defense and illustration of the French language), published four years later, although, being a poetry book, Etxepare’s work has not got the theoretical depth of the latter. In line with the spreading Renaissance movement regarding nation-states, Etxepare wanted Basque to become a high-level language. The Navarrese state had began to fall, due to attacks by the kingdoms of Castile and France, but still remained independent, and we can assume that Etxepare stood for the Basque language as a Navarrese vassal. Castile conquered Navarre in 1512, and it was precisely during that time that Iparralde started to shape itself as a geographic and cultural entity. However, it was a long process, full of adversities. In 1656, Louis XIV and Philip IV of Spain signed the Treaty of the Pyrenees, which established the border that now separates Southern and Northern Basque Country. Some years after Etxepare’s work was published, that is, in 1572, and with the Navarrese state still agonizing, the Calvinist queen Jeanne d’Albret (queen of Navarre, 1528–72) entrusted the protestant priest Joannes Leizarraga with the translation into Basque of the New Testament. This way, Basque became the ninth language into which the Christian’s sacred book was translated. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.34apa © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Together with that translation, Leizarraga was ordered to write many other books, such as the pedagogic schoolbook ABC edo kristinoen instruktionea (ABC, or The Christian instruction; published in 1572, in La Rochelle) — a piece of evidence that proves that the Protestant kingdom aimed to start an education and language policy. The most important works of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Basque literature were written in Iparralde — among others, Pedro Aguerre Azpilicueta (“Axular”)’s Gero (Later, 1643), opera prima of Basque classic prose. Of course, there were also some written works in the Southern provinces and dialects between the sixteenth and the eighteenth century, yet we can confirm that the core of literary production (both in quantity and in quality) was Iparralde. Writers in Iparralde, unlike those in Hegoalde (“south side” is the south side of the Basque Country under Spanish administration, as opposed to Iparralde — “north side” — which is the north side under French administration), managed to take the literary register to a higher level of development and refinement. Twentieth-century historians (and particularly literary scholars) have various explanations for the difference in the speed of development on the two sides of the Spain-France border. It has long been said and repeated that the economy was at the core of this difference (see Michelena 1960). Taking into account this theory (which has a certain Marxist nuance), the fast development of the maritime economy in Iparralde would be the driving force of its rich cultural production. As a matter of fact, Saint-Jean-de-Luz was one of the most important fishing harbors of Europe in the sixteenth century, and it is precisely there that the brightest source of Basque writers was located, i.e., the school of Sare in the seventeenth century. In this regard, the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 would be the cause of the decrease in the maritime activity of Iparralde, and, hence, also the reason for the decline of its writing production. Luis Michelena uses the interrelation between infrastructure and superstructure as the basis on which to formulate his hypothesis. However, this theory has recently been questioned. According to an article published by Beñat Oyharçabal (2001), the reason for the literary dominance of Iparralde, as opposed to the underdevelopment of Hegoalde, would mainly be a sociolinguistic issue. In fact, the two Basque societies were in different diglossic situations. Castilian soon prevailed over Latin, and that hindered the development of Basque production. French, on the contrary, apparently did not replace Latin until late, thanks to which Basque continued to be used among privileged social classes. In any case, the literary richness of Iparralde during that period is undeniable (taking literature in its broadest sense). It was not until the nineteenth century that the literary and cultural dynamism of the two sides of the border started to balance. Throughout Romanticism, writers in Hegoalde and Iparralde worked tirelessly, and often hand-in-hand too, in what has been known as the Basque Renaissance. Truthfully, the idea of a unified Basque culture (which paved the way for future nationalist movements) could be taken as the result of the success of the Romantic concept of nation that spread through Europe. Nevertheless, even though in the nineteenth century both sides of the Basque Country were equal in dynamism, dialects of Iparralde (and especially the Labourdian dialect) were still richer and more flexible literary tools, as a result of the collective work of previous centuries. When it comes to technique, Iparralde’s dialects remained ahead until the first third of the twentieth century. In spite of the fact that Hegoalde is stronger in demography and economy, press freedom was first established in Iparralde (thanks to the French Law of 1881). Written press production led to the exploration of new registers and topics, hence improving the skills of writers in general. The rise of high-class, cosmopolitan tourism in Biarritz (and to a lesser extent also in Saint-Jean-de-Luz) would help to renew writing topics as well.

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country411 By the beginning of the twentieth century, writers in Iparralde, unlike their counterparts in Hegoalde, possessed a language register capable of describing almost all of the new modern world surrounding them — an updated and flexible language, with a wide variety of registers. Buruxkak (Spikes, 1910), by the doctor and writer Jean Etxepare, is without any doubt the best example of the language’s good health during this belle époque. This polemical and provocative book could be considered the origin of modern Basque literature. Etxepare took the language away from religion, by directly denouncing clericalism (as he proclaims that the language should be taught in lay schools), and he broke the taboo of sexuality. In addition, he took the Labourdian dialect to a new level of sophistication.

The fall of literature in Iparralde Unfortunately, it was Iparralde’s society itself that censored Etxepare and withdrew his book. This event symbolizes the beginning of the decline of literature in Iparralde — a process that has lasted until now. Basque speakers of Iparralde in the early twentieth century did not become bourgeois, since there was no industrialization in the area. Therefore, Basque has been closely related to agriculture and the Church for a long time. Consequently, the sociological profile of the writer and doctor Jean Etxepare (studying for a university degree far from the Basque Country and having a liberal profession) was a highly unusual one in Iparralde. He wrote for non-existing readers. Besides, unlike in Hegoalde, World War I paradoxically (because many non-Frenchspeaking Basque farmers died for France) sowed French patriotism and quickened the decline of the Basque language in Iparralde. In Hegoalde, however, industrialization and the emergence of nationalism completely transformed the scenario, both physically and sociologically. This transformation was so great that during the last years of Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship, Basque nationalism acquired a modernist point of view. Urbanized Basques (and above all, those living in Bilbao and in San Sebastián) became the writers that modernized Basque literature. Iparralde, on the contrary, due to its economic underdevelopment, could no longer offer a suitable infrastructure to be a literary core, even though it continued to have the richest literary production until the middle of the century (as well as better qualified readers who were used to reading in Basque). Bayonne was too small compared to Bilbao and San Sebastian. Nevertheless, Franco’s dictatorship artificially extended Iparralde’s dominance of the Basque written word. By destroying literary infrastructures and often by physically eliminating writers (through execution or exile), Franco’s regime delayed the rise of Hegoalde as the core of the Basque literary system. Already in the 1960s, the creation and development of euskara batua (standardized Basque) had an important role in the loss of prestige of the Basque literature production of Iparralde. As a matter of fact, Euskaltzaindia (The Royal Academy of the Basque Language) had an intense inner debate about the linguistic model that the standardization process should follow. Some members (like Federiko Krutwig) wanted to use the Labourdian dialect as the basis and maintain its literary classicism, while others (Jose Luis Alvarez Enparantza, aka “Txillardegi,” for example) were in favor of using the Gipuzkoan dialect, which was considered to be more dynamic demographically, sociologically, and culturally speaking. In the end, Euskaltzaindia favored the second approach when establishing the basis for the unified language in 1968, and Iparralde’s Basque literature paid

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the consequences — on the one hand, the model chosen left its writers and readers behind, and, on the other hand, Iparralde has no institution to spread euskara batua among its inhabitants. Indeed, after Franco’s death, Hegoalde regained its autonomy and started developing education and language policies (integrating euskara batua massively into the community), yet Iparralde, having missed the boat of linguistic modernity, remained excluded. Throughout the 1980s, the writers of Iparralde systematically began to publish their works in publishing houses established in Hegoalde. The publishing houses of the Southern Basque Country started to professionalize (thus creating a culture industry), whereas in Iparralde publishing was more of a craft. As the century went by, the main literary dialect of Iparralde became an alibi for writers in Hegoalde, now the center of the scene. It was fashionable and chic (and, to a certain extent, it still is) for writers in Hegoalde to splash their works with words and idioms from dialects of Iparralde. This tendency can already be seen in the 1930s among many great poets of Hegoalde. For instance, Lauxeta’s Arrats beran (At dusk, 1931) is full of iparraldisms, and the same could be said about all of Lizardi’s works. As Iparralde’s dialects had always had a rich literature tradition, authors wanted to provide their work with literary prestige, and so, they turned to the heritage of this linguistic area, now excluded to the periphery. Apparently, inserting those dialects in their texts gave their work a literary nuance. But, at the same time, those works that were completely written in the literary dialects of Iparralde (namely those works written by the authors of Iparralde) suddenly fell into the background forever. They became the periphery. In the last years of the twentieth century, some would try to reform and modernize the literary registers of Iparralde and adapt them to the standardized language, in an attempt to fit into the new literary context. Oddly enough, both Iparralde and the new Basque literary core (located in Hegoalde) have resisted that change. For example, Ibon Sarasola, a member of Euskaltzaindia (whose attitude is well described by the fact that members of Euskaltzaindia are called euskaltzain, which literally means “the one who guards Basque”) harshly criticized the reforms carried out by some authors in Iparralde (such as Itxaro Borda and Antton Luku) towards the end of the 1990s. Sarasola and the rest of his supporters aimed to turn Iparralde’s Labourdian dialect into a heritage or sanctuary, as seen in the magazines Eskualduna (1887–1944) and Herria (1945–present). The main literary dialects of Iparralde have become a pure linguistic “stock” for writers and intellectuals in Hegoalde, and that is the only way in which they are allowed to take part in the national construction of the Basque language. The peripheral writers of Iparralde (who, in light of this ultraconservative view, seem to be forever condemned to the periphery) must live on a linguistic reservation, forced to speak or write in the “classic” register of Iparralde.

The structure of the current Basque literary system The structure of the current Basque literary system is quite a complicated one. Its main capital cities are Bilbo-Bilbao and Donostia-San Sebastián, and in a second place, Vitoria-Gasteiz. Donostia owns the publishing and linguistic leadership, whereas Bilbao has become a bridge and showcase for international markets. Finally, the most important awards and grants are decided in Vitoria, since that is where the Basque government is based. Nonetheless, those three cities are located in the administrative area of the Basque Autonomous Community, and this region is the new core

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country413 of the literary system, as its laws and economic capacity offer better guarantees to Basque literary producers. The new core of the Basque literary system is, therefore, a polycentric one. Regarding the periphery, it could be divided into two literary regions — Navarre’s Basque literary production and Iparralde’s Basque literary production. Navarrese writers are in the periphery indeed, but in a different way than those from Iparralde. Navarre’s literature tradition is short, unless we take into account that, before being conquered in 1512, the Kingdom of Navarre reached Iparralde, and, therefore, the classic writers of Iparralde of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are the literary heritage of Navarre. However, unlike in Iparralde, Navarrese law gives greater protection to the Basque language, since it acknowledges its official status and accepts education policies, at least in some regions. Iparralde’s literary tradition, on the contrary, could not be richer, and yet, without any legal support, the language’s situation is alarming. Therefore, what I am now going to describe is a literature subsystem inside the humble Basque literary system, which is itself in the periphery of international literature. Basque literature in Iparralde is the outskirts of the periphery. Still, these outskirt writers are not a homogeneous group. They can develop very different strategies, especially concerning their relationship towards their environment. There are at least two ways to belong to the core, and there are as many again for the periphery. On the one hand, there are two types of writers in the system’s core — “native” writers, i.e., those who started their profession there and do not have to make any effort to adapt to local traditions and conduct, and “assimilated” writers, i.e., those who are originally peripheral but have rejected their creative characteristics to assimilate the ones of the new literary system’s core. However, being “native” or “assimilated” does not determine which place a writer will hold inside the hierarchy. Just as some “native” writers (like Ramon Saizarbitoria) have managed to succeed, so too have some “assimilated” writers reached the top. Such is the case of Joseba Sarrionandia, who uses standard Basque instead of writing in Biscayan, despite being from Biscay. Likewise, many others (be they “native” or “assimilated”) are doomed to ruin, and they often remain semi or completely anonymous. On the other hand, writers in the periphery can also be divided into two types — those who only aim at the periphery, that is, writers whose work is exclusively directed to their natural readers on the periphery, without any further ambition (notice that they do not regard themselves as being on the periphery, but rather as being the core of a smaller system), and those who even if they feel they belong to the periphery (and do not renounce it) aim to reach the readers in the system’s core too. The latter have no intention of being assimilated by the system’s core and their (so to say) national ambition automatically turns them into revolutionaries, as they have to transform and revolutionize all the values and structure of the system’s core, in order to reach the readers there. Lastly, we should not forget that the Labourdian dialect is the core of Iparralde’s subsystem, and Zuberoa’s literature would be a micro subsystem inside Iparralde’s subsystem. Thus, we would find “native” and “assimilated” writers inside the core of this subsystem too. Using the Russian nested doll as a metaphor, we see that we find the same mechanisms at this scale too — for example, we have “assimilated” writers, that is, Souletins who write in the Labourdian dialect. Having these basic categories in mind, we can start classifying current writers of Iparralde.

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Daniel Landart: the centrality of a rightful heir I shall start with a simple affirmation: none of the “native” writers of the core of the Basque literary system come from Iparralde. Theoretically, it is possible to find “assimilated” writers, i.e., a writer who uses standard Basque and deals with the topics and quandaries of the literary system’s core. I will discuss whether there are really such writers later on. But, for now, I will examine and classify the authors in the periphery of the Basque system (that is, Iparralde), as well as their difficulties and topics. Those writers can be either “natives” or “assimilated,” as they form part of the core of this subsystem. Among “native” writers, and thus at the top of the subsystem or in the core of the periphery, Daniel Landart is the most rightful and natural leader of all — taking into account those who have succeeded, of course. With age in his favor, this author from Lower Navarre, who has reached both his biological and artistic maturity, is the heir of those past writers that were once the core of the subsystem. This does not mean he was not revolutionary for his time. But we should distinguish between two revolutions — the one related to the generational shift (with possible ideological struggles in between), and the one that aims to question the legitimacy of the system. As a hypothesis, I could say that, in the case of literary revolutions related to generational shifts, changes are limited to referential and ideological issues. On the contrary, when the revolution’s goal is to destabilize the system, it seems that it is the literary register that changes (thus the medium and not only the content). Thus, one could say that the new Basque literary model of nationalist/modernist writers in the 1930s (such as Lizardi and Lauxeta) merges with the proclamation of the unified national Basque literary system (or area). Borrowing idioms from different dialects and putting Sabino Arana’s orthographic and lexicological rules into practice, they broke with the up-to-then dominant regionalist model. The same would happen thirty years later, when the heterodox generation (formed by Jon Mirande, Federiko Krutwig, “Txillardegi,” and Gabriel Aresti, among others) banked on standardized Basque. It was just a replay of the failed pre-war attempt to create a unified literary system (without Arana’s linguistics and ideology, of course). If we take this hypothesis as valid, then it is clear why we have classified Landart among the revolutionary writers whose sole aim is to have a generational shift. Landart did not break with the Basque language model of the Eskualduna and Herria magazines. He continued with the language model he received from his ancestors. That is exactly what the younger Itxaro Borda, his main competitor in Iparralde’s subsystem, has reproached him for. Hence, Landart should be catalogued among the revolutionaries of the first group from the 1960s onwards; he managed to renew the obsolete topics and ways of the previous generations, which had already lost their meaning to new generations, but without questioning Iparralde’s system itself. One could include the playwright Pantzo Hirigarai in the same category, although his career is not as extensive as Landart’s. It is no coincidence that the second author on the list is a playwright. As a matter of fact, one of the peculiarities of Iparralde’s literary subsystem is the importance of plays. In the “central” Basque literary system (i.e., the one ruled by Hegoalde) novels have been the main genre of the last thirty years, while the rest of the genres, such as poetry, essays, and plays, have been left to the periphery. However, in Iparralde the situation is different. Of course, novels and, prose in general, have a long tradition and strength, yet theatre is still the most popular and successful genre. One could affirm that, when it comes to the relative importance of genres, Iparralde’s literary system is better balanced than the Basque central

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country415 system, since poetry still has some strength, novels have not absorbed prose completely, and theatre remains healthy. Nevertheless, this balanced situation is not a good sign — the fact that oral genres (in other words, theatre and poetry) have greater strength indicates a lower level of literacy. Few inhabitants in Iparralde are capable of reading and enjoying a book in Basque, not to mention a novel. There are many more, however, who can see and understand a play. Therefore, many writers in Iparralde’s subsystem are also involved in theatre, including Landart himself, who is known for renewing Iparralde’s traditional theatre, and for his poetry, which has been set to music many times, as much as he is for his prose. Itxaro Borda or an endless journey from the periphery to the center Let us now analyze the peripheral writers of Iparralde’s literary subsystem. Among the peripheral writers, Itxaro Borda is, without any doubt, the most important. It may seem surprising to classify as peripheral an author with such a high-profile and success on the “national” level as Itxaro Borda (in 2002, the Basque Government granted her the Euskadi literature award, which belongs to the central Basque literary system), yet so it is. One could consider her as peripheral to a great extent, inside Iparralde’s subsystem too. Nonetheless, in order to understand Borda’s position inside Iparralde’s literature subsystem and inside the Basque literary system as a whole, we must go back in time to her first works and publications. At the beginning of the 1980s, Borda was an “average” writer who used to contribute to Herria (one of the magazines of Iparralde’s subsystem’s core), as well as to other similar “legitimate” publications. However, she soon left that conservative climate, and together with a group of writers, she founded the literature magazine Maiatz. This new magazine followed the lines of other contemporary magazines created in Hegoalde during the Spanish transition to democracy, such as Pott, Oh Euzkadi, and Susa — that is, it specialized in literature, and tried to import universal (international) literature references, etc. However, Maiatz focused above all on Iparralde’s literary register, although Hegoalde’s writers always had a door open, even those who wrote in standard Basque. In short, Maiatz was closer to a generational revolution than to a revolution to change the system. But Borda went further. Apparently, she saw herself as too peripheral, being not only a writer from Iparralde, but also a woman and a lesbian. Since the beginning of her ambitious career, she had wanted to earn a place inside the Basque Country as a whole, and in 1984 she published the satiric and polemic novel Basilika (Basilica), her first attempt to leave the periphery. Naturally, the novel Basilika is still linked to her generational revolution, as its ideological and referential content is a fierce attack to previous generations — it criticizes devoutness, defends the trinity sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, and aggressively caricatures Iparralde’s prominent cultural figures. Nevertheless, its revolutionary contribution goes even further. Basilika is above all an attempt to short-circuit the well-rooted structure and inner hierarchy of Iparralde’s literature subsystem. By starting to write in standard language, Borda questions the legitimacy of Iparralde’s subsystem, and reclaims the right of Iparralde’s writers to take part in the central Basque system. Moreover, she published her novel in a publishing house from Hegoalde (Susa), which is symbolically important. In this regard, I must emphasize that Borda was the first writer of Iparralde to start publishing her works systematically in publishing houses from Hegoalde. From this point of view, we could say the Labourdian writer tries to start

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a revolution to change Iparralde’s system. However, she was not the first one to try. There were other very famous and important pioneers. A very effective way to escape from being dominated by another region or to avoid depending on another region is escaping the system by entering a faster one. That is precisely what Atxaga did in 1989 when he started to write in Spanish and adopted a Spanish identity — if his works were translated by someone else, he would not be a Spanish writer but a writer who had been exported from the Basque system, so he chose to translate his own works. Likewise, the Souletin writer Jon Mirande decided to write in standard Basque between 1950 and 1960, thus entering the Basque system and leaving Iparralde’s conservative subsystem (dominated by the Labourdian dialect) behind. One could say that Mirande (and Borda afterwards) managed to avoid the fate suffered by the doctor Jean Etxepare some decades before (i.e., being censored by Iparralde’s subsystem), by using Hegoalde’s publishing houses and language registers. That is indeed the strategy that Borda followed when she wrote Basilika in standard Basque and directly published with Susa. The problem is that Mirande made his debut when the Basque literary system was still structuring itself, and he took part directly in the process. When Mirande started to write, standard Basque was a mere theory, and, to some extent, the literary register became part of the core created by Mirande and his contemporaries (a group of heterodox writers), whereas the national Basque literary system was already in place when Borda joined it. Standard Basque already had its own classics, Donostia had started to get enough symbolic patrimony to become a capital, and that made it difficult for a “non-native” new writer to enter the fortress of the literary system’s core. Therefore, in this first phase, Borda did not achieve the place she wanted inside the Basque system. That is, she did not reach the level of her contemporaries of Hegoalde, like Mirande did. Hence Borda had a double aim when she wrote Basilika in standard Basque and published it in Hegoalde. By writing in standard Basque and having Donostia as the capital city, she tried to integrate into the core of the Basque literary system and overcome the peripheral condition she suffered in Iparralde as a young woman. Certainly, Iparralde’s subsystem did not forgive (and has not forgiven yet) this attack. As a matter of fact, Basilika rejected Iparralde’s subsystem and called for its auto-destruction. As a consequence, she was absolutely excluded in the following years. After living some time in Paris, Borda came back with new literary aims ten years later. Her fourth writing phase started with the novel Bakean ützi arte (Until they leave us in peace, 1994). Her first phase was when she took part in Herria, i.e., her legitimist or subjugated phase. Her second is linked to the creation of the Maiatz magazine, related to the generational shift. Her third phase is marked by Basilika — her revolutionary attempt to change or question Iparralde’s literary subsystem, while already giving some signals of integrating into Hegoalde’s system. Without any doubt, the forth phase is the most interesting and ambitious of all, since Borda becomes truly original by creating a new position. Borda’s goal was to write a saga formed by five novels with the lesbian detective Amaia Ezpeldoi as link. This way, she went from the periphery to the core, in both topic and language. The first book, Bakean ützi arte (Until they leave us in peace, 1994), is located in Soule and written in the Souletin dialect. The second book, Bizi nizano munduan (As long as I live, 1996), takes place in Lower Navarre and is almost completely written in the Labourdian dialect. In the third novel of the saga, Amorezko pena baño (Just love sick, 1996), the action happens in the non-Basquespeaking Navarrese region of Ribera, and it is mainly written in the Labourdian dialect. The fourth novel, Jalgi hadi plazara (Come out into the square, 2007), is located in Bilbao, and the last

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country417 one, Boga boga (2012), in Bayonne. When starting the detective saga, the aim of the author was to reach to Donostia (the core), going from periphery to periphery. However, Donostia does not appear in this pentalogy — as if she could not reach the core. Even though it is thus a half-finished project, what Borda aimed to achieve is in my opinion one of the most original goals of recent years. In fact, this impossible attempt to cover all the system (periphery and core) aims to change the operation of the Basque system. By taking the peripheries to the core (we should not forget that all five books have been published by Susa, a publishing house located in the system’s core) and enhancing them, Borda proposes a new way of seeing the system, a utopia based on equality — through this saga Borda questions why the periphery is a periphery and why the core is a core. Nonetheless, unlike in her previous phase, she emphasizes her peripheral condition instead of trying to integrate into the core — she chooses peripheral dialects over standard language, and above all her own dialect, i.e. Labourdian, but also brings Souletin to light (a periphery inside Iparralde’s subsystem). Therefore, we should not see it as a step backwards to return to Iparralde, but rather as a very ambitious attempt to question the hierarchical relationship between periphery and core, this time accepting her peripheral condition. One could say that Itxaro Borda has applied genre theory’s subversive parodic or hyperbolic attitude to the literary periphery, that is, she has turned her peripheral condition into hyperbole by exaggerating it, in order to question the presumed inherent nature of the categorization between periphery and core. Rephrasing Judith Butler’s words, parodying the typical characteristics of periphery shows that this literary identity is an essentialist illusion. In this regard, in the case of Borda, going back to using dialects should not be understood as a conservative or reactionary tendency, but rather as an attempt to change Iparralde’s subsystem. Hence, Borda is twice as peripheral — on the one hand, she criticizes the standard language (which is the core of the system) and Donostia’s dominance, by means of writing in dominated dialects; on the other hand, she creates a new literary register that goes against orthodox literary Labourdian, symbolized by the conservative magazine Herria. Which is that new literary register? It is still the Labourdian dialect, but it breaks with literary tradition at the same time. It borrows words from French, mixes colloquial and formal language, uses idioms and references of everyday language, and, in general, is no longer homogeneous and purist. Briefly stated, one could say that Itxaro Borda has created a “queer” version of the Labourdian literary dialect. There are now two questions hanging. First, how do we explain Borda having won the Euskadi literature award in 2002? Being an award that the system’s core grants to its own writers, is not this award, by definition, a self-celebration? Second, why do we keep defining Borda as the periphery of Iparralde’s subsystem, if she has a national award? The first question has a logical answer. One must take into account that, although paradoxical, a core always needs to have a periphery by its side or, better said, on its outskirts. Peripheries do not disturb the core. On the contrary, for a core to keep being the core, it needs to be the center of something, and, thus, it is absolutely necessary to keep a periphery (in all the senses of the word — financing it, maintaining it). Moreover, what is a core? From a historical point of view, a core is a periphery that has defeated other potential peripheries. Just as the French literary system needs other French-speaking peripheries, so too the Basque literary system needs Biscay’s, Navarre’s, and Iparralde’s subsystems in order to be the core of something. If there is something that hinders the core, it is not peripheral writers, but rather those peripheral writers

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who ignore the core. The Basque literary system, therefore, needs Borda’s refusing, queer, and revolutionary peripheral proclamation, since opposition reminds the core of its centrality. In her radical periphery, Itxaro Borda is the most bothered by the core among Iparralde’s writers, that is, she has the Basque system always in mind when she writes and that is exactly what the Basque system has rewarded. Now I have to answer the second question. Why do we still say that Borda belongs to Iparralde’s peripheral subsystem, if she has an Euskadi award? As a matter of fact, she seems to be out of the literary system. Changes in the literary register can lead to a symbolic revolution, but, for the revolution to be successful (for a new register to become central and replace old registers), it has to coincide with a social change. In other words, the direction of language revolutions cannot differ from society’s evolution. They need to be connected one way or the other, even though it is possible for a writer to start revolution (as Mirande, Aresti, and Txillardegi did). Lizardi and Lauxeta, on the contrary, suffered the above-mentioned lack of connection or synchronization. They were pioneers in their linguistic and literary options, and, although they were immediately publicized by an elite, that same elite regretted doing it. It is common knowledge that it is the patron of Basque literature Jose Ariztimuño “Aitzol” who first rewarded them and then excluded them. To make it worse, the war extinguished all hopes for a future victory. As a matter of fact, the pre-war context was full of hope, since it seemed that, thanks to alphabetization — the Basque Government had founded a Teacher-Training College — Lizardi’s and Lauxeta’s Basque would start to spread, but Francoism turned everything upside down. One keeps reading Lizardi’s and Lauaxeta’s literary hapax legomenon due to its quality (and the symbolic effort it meant), yet this literature revolution was aborted and nobody follows their ways anymore, and does not even think about doing it! Maybe one keeps reading them because they were once poets, and, since poetry has become a peripheral genre, it gives shelter to all peripheral registers. Good proof is that nobody reads Lizardi’s prose. By the same token, Aurelia Arkotxa, and Iparralde’s poets in general, paradoxically are not that affected by the peripheral condition inherent to being a writer in this area. In fact, poetry is itself a peripheral genre in the Basque literary system, every day more and more so, and, hence, there is less difference between the poets in Iparralde and Hegoalde than between the writers of both regions. Poetry shelters all new, odd, and peripheral languages, and in this context, even the most exotic register of Iparralde is “normal,” as it becomes a reflection of the peripheral condition of the genre itself. Nevertheless, nuances and exceptions aside, nowadays Basque citizens write like Mirande, Aresti, and Txillardegi used to, as the actual standard language is a linguistic heir of theirs and they were the pioneers of the revolution in the register that would afterwards materialize sociologically. The proliferation of bilingual education (after the Spanish transition to democracy) created readers capable of consuming heterodox writer’s new literary registers. Yet happiness is never complete, and it was the next generation the one who enjoyed the sweetest results of this literary model — the generation of the Basque Autonomous Community, i.e., Bernardo Atxaga, Joseba Sarrionaindia, and their contemporaries. Unfortunately, one may think or fear that Borda will suffer the same fate of Lizardi and Lauaxeta. There will never be a reader generation large enough to understand and enjoy her language style. There is the elite, of course, who can already taste her works’ flavor, but Iparralde’s sociolinguistic situation does not benefit from it. Its inhabitants’ linguistic level goes down quickly. Older generations keep reading those writers that follow Daniel Landart’s register, due

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country419 to aesthetic and ideological empathy. Nonetheless, because of their language skills, it is still easier for younger generations to read Herria magazine’s literary register, despite being ideologically closer to Borda and Antton Luku. This situation damages Iparralde’s literary subsystem, as the synchronization between its literary life and its sociolinguistic situation is diminishing. Borda could be affected by the “last of the Mohicans’ syndrome,” and the fact that her books are more read (and commented on) in Hegoalde than in Iparralde is an alarming proof of that. Borda’s last attempt could be the result of the desolation caused by this situation. In what one could consider her fifth phase, she has published one of more recent works in French (100% Basque, 2001), in an effort to reach Iparralde’s readers who speak less and less Basque. Northernness vs. Iparraldeness. Aurelia Akortxa’s Septentrio Few of Iparralde’s writers have achieved a worthy position in the general Basque literary system. And, perhaps, it is no coincidence that the majority of writers who have achieved it are women. Like Borda, Aurelia Arkotxa has all of those characteristics that enhance her peripheral status. Those living in the periphery are the ones who are more interested in changing the system, so it is not surprising that two women condemned to dependence in Iparralde’s male chauvinist subsystem are the most innovative and brave writers in this revolution. Arkotxa has slowly but steadily gained the interest of the Basque literary system, and, like Borda, she is part of the writer generation of Maiatz magazine. However, she has taken a different route to avoid the peripheral condition inherent in belonging to Iparralde. Her literary production is structured by an original and complex predicament, which reached maturity in her second poem book Septentrio, published in 2001. (The book was published by one of the main publishing houses of Hegoalde, Alberdania. Truth to be told, Septentrio has ceased to be a mere poem book, in order to become “something more.” Moreover, this widening of the limits of poetry as a genre can be seen as a sign that a personal and unusual quandary is being developed.) By refusing realism and its literary genre, i.e., the novel, she finds the tools to ennoble her poetry (or poetic prose, to be more precise). Seeing that Iparralde’s main literary dialect (Labourdian) had become a secondary language in the main Basque system, she tried to make a benefit of this disadvantage, but, unlike Borda, she did not change or break with this register, forcing readers of the Basque central system through an aesthetic point of view. Given that during Basque literature’s classic age (between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries) Iparralde was the dominant area (to the point of being the core of the Basque system), she uses one of the topics of that era, that is, the ocean and the sailing world, to shape her poetry. In Septentrio, a book splashed with seawater’s mystery, the writer seems to still be living in the era of corsairs and seamen. Her imaginary and register constantly remind us of the time when Iparralde was the core of Basque culture. But let us not be misguided, Arkotxa’s poetic (or geopoetic) world is an alternate reality. She goes from a legendary Persia (the one from The Arabian Nights) to a modern, iced landscape in North America without almost any transition, and then back to sixteenth-century Europe’s sea chronicles. I have described it as an alternate reality, but I should also call it utopia, or, maybe, atopia. The book fuses many eras and spaces, which are linked through the author’s register and style — a homogeneous language, formal to the point of being cultured, as a result of using a refined lexicon that reminds us of Mirande and Sarrionandia. This is indeed the territory of Septentrio (not only as a geographical and temporal

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area, but also as the space defined by literary references), and thus also the North, i.e. Iparralde, if one takes it as an allegory of the above-mentioned literary subsystem, a sublimated literary territory that symbolizes periphery. Arkotxa’s language is free from the feeling of “cheapness” of overexploited modernisms, and has returned to a virgin Basque that has nothing to do with linguistic purism. Her literary register has Iparralde’s taste, because her writing is refined and beautiful (far from today’s informal oral production), because she uses Latin and English and likes to mention names and patronymics of foreign places instead of translating them, and because, oddly enough, Northern Basque Country does not appear in that world map. Therefore, in my opinion, Arkortxa’s literary work does not belong to Northern Basque Country’s literature. By using time, space, and language registers in a masterly way, Arkotxa turns the Labourdian dialect into literary abstraction; she has displaced it and removed it from Iparralde, and made it the ideal and aristocratic language of the periphery. When she uses Labourdian dialect, Arkotxa is like a contemporary Greek writer writing in classical Greek. Or, drawing an analogy that could fit in her alternate literary reality or literary utopia, Arkotxa’s Basque and northernness would be the counterpart of the elves and their mysterious and beautiful language in J. R. R. Tolkien’s literary universe (The Middle Earth). Elves are in reality a dying race, refined people committed to poetry. Nonetheless, with great magnanimity, they make a last sacrifice to save the Middle Earth, by accepting an allegiance with common mortals, dwarfs and hobbits, even though they know that they will disappear, no matter whether they succeed in the war against dark Mordor. Basque is in dire straits in Iparralde, yet Arkotxa makes a “noble” offer (as well as generous and aristocratic) to the Basque literary system’s core. Arkotxa’s attitude could be considered cultural snobbery (her most wicked critics have defined it as such), but one would not understand her goal if one does not take into account that it is a strategic snobbery. Arkotxa tells us that Iparralde’s literary register is in a higher aesthetic level than Hegoalde’s thanks to the refinement gained throughout its history. Her snobbery is an answer to her peripheral condition, i.e., contempt to respond to contempt. An old declassified rich (in the sense that Pierre Bourdieu gives to the word) looking down on a new rich — Hegoalde, the Basque system’s core. The new generation: evolution or involution? Finally, I should say a few words about the future and about new generations. During the last twenty years, a new generation has appeared, as a result of the first batch of children who studied in ikastolas (Basque immersion schools) — Eneko Bidegain, Gorka Torre, Arantxa Hirigoien, Nora Arbelbide, Ramuntxo Etxeberri, and Béatrice Urruspil. These young authors have chosen Iparralde’s standard dialect in order to express themselves (splashed or updated with the standard Basque they learned at school), and have returned to a positive language path, after Borda and Arkotxa’s extreme stylistic bets. At any rate, their language is not the core of their literary predicament. Furthermore, we could not describe their work as revolutionary (not even literarily speaking). At best, they offer a shy update of content and tone, or else they follow a conservative tradition, both ideologically and aesthetically. One of the most astounding characteristics regarding their literary topics is the respect and admiration for their parents’ and grandparents’ generation.

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country421 Eneko Bidegain’s Anbroxio (2002) is the most notable exponent of this tendency. It tells the story of a young man who collects the memories of his grandfather during the war. Even more astounding is the attitude we observe in Gorka Torre’s Gazte idealistak (Idealist youth, 2002). Its attitude could be taken as paradoxical conservatism, since the protagonist of the novel refers to his parents as “revolutionaries.” One could say that the book pays homage to revolutionary parents, those left-wing revolutionary nationalist activists that founded the ikastolas of Iparralde. By this I mean that writers must have high literary knowledge or ability in order to enter the Basque literary system, or at least higher than they needed before. Some decades ago, writers did not have to be literary experts, and having a good command of the Basque language was almost enough to be published. This was a long time ago in Hegoalde’s central system. Anyhow, the new generation does not break with previous literature. The previous revolutionary generation separated itself from readers, but the new generation erases this rupture, and in their work one can notice a humble attempt to establish the conditions to reconnect with Iparralde’s real readers. They do not want to scare or disturb readers, just in case. This way, Borda, Luku, Arkotxa, and their contemporaries are doomed to become a brave and innovative lost generation, living in the middle of no man’s land, since even if most of their readers belong to Hegoalde, they cling to Iparralde’s peculiarity in a radical way. Unfortunately, this revolutionary group around the Maiatz magazine has an ambitious and general perspective (they write knowing they are part of the Basque literary system, but at the same time defend and accept their peripheral condition unabashedly) and their universal literary ambition (they are well-versed in international literature) is nowhere to be found in the new generation. Literature is neither food for thought, nor a language in itself. As a matter of fact, new writers show little knowledge about international literature and about central and Iparralde’s Basque literature, and the ultra-correctness of their work is remarkable. They do not want to degrade the language they have learned from their families and at school, but they do not play with language either. It is a testimonial literature of little literary conscience. For these young writers, writing has a direct and immediate social function (in their texts they implicitly call on Basque youth to live in Basque), and “committed literature” has prevailed. This way, and without meaning to offend anyone (and taking into account that these young writers have to deal with a more and more complicated sociolinguistic situation), one can describe it as a step back in quality, from a strictly literary view. In this struggle for linguistic survival, few of Iparralde’s young writers dare to get close to the Basque literary system. They do not have the ambition or the dream to integrate into the core, but do not have enough strength or courage to reject it either. They write for Iparralde’s subsystem, be it in humility or resignation (one does not know), but they do not dream further. It is also true that the current Basque system is more structured than that of the past and that reaching the core is more and more demanding. One could say that Iparralde’s literature subsystem has started to show a tendency to introversion. Over the last few years, the subsystem has begun to structure itself, accepting, perhaps, that it is the periphery. As if it feared the risk of being swallowed, unless it emphasizes its distinctive features. Signals are certainly multiplying. For instance, in the last years of Zabal bookshop in Bayonne (mid-1990s), and now in the Elkar bookshop, there is a specific section for Iparralde’s writers (before, all Basque writers were mixed in the same section). In this regard, the Elkar publishing house, located in Donostia, has created a subsidized department for Iparralde’s young writers (Iparluma), as if they were too weak to compete with Hegoalde’s

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young writers in the general literary field without special help. Likewise, the institution Euskal Kultur Erakundea (Basque Cultural Institute), located in Iparralde, has specific policies to support Iparralde’s culture. The ikastolas are now the main reproductive area of Basque speakers, and, therefore, the main producers of that “politically correct” Basque micro society. Perhaps that is the reason why innovative young writers come from an environment outside ikastolas. Certainly, having grown up on the outskirts of the new linguistic and ideological norm formed by ikastolas forces them to be braver in order to gain a place in Iparralde’s cultural scene. Differences aside, the playwright Xabier Itzaina (Frigoa eta ni [The fridge and I], 1999, unpublished), Ramuntxo Etxeberri (Skyroom, 2004), and Béatrice Urruspil (Gizaki bakartiak [The lonely people], 2010) could be classified under this category. Itzaina makes an acid satire of Iparralde’s youth, using the region’s legitimate language (Labourdian), but ruining it with modernisms, mimicking the way that real young people speak. He does not have, as Borda did, the revolutionary goal of trying to create a new style, yet he does try to free or refresh the language. As he scratches this legitimate language, waves of reality invade the novel. That reality is not constituted by young and exemplary nationalist activists (such as the ones that ikastolas aimed to produce), but rather by an irregular and universal fauna (nationalist and non-nationalist), all sieved through the same humor. Whereas these generations produced in ikastolas have scarcely any self-irony (and in general very little sense of humor), it is in the forefront of Itzain’s novel. Nevertheless, he reflects the tragedy and agony of Iparralde’s Basque speakers like no other, by filtering and reinventing it through comicalness. Béatrice Urruspil’s only novel appears to be obsessed with loneliness, as its title reflects. This loneliness can easily be understood as a fictional reflection of the sociological loneliness of those Basque speakers educated outside the world of the ikastolas. This allegorical interpretation can be effortlessly supported by means of the short story “Hitz isilak” (Silent words; Urruspil 2010, 67–79), whose protagonist is socially excluded for speaking in a strange, invented language. It is interesting to notice that the author had to retake Basque, learning it again as an adult. She had had some contact with it at home, yet her parents did not consider it important enough to enroll their daughter in the Basque immersion educational system. One must take into account that Basque is not an official language in France, and, thus, ikastolas are the only system that offers a Basque immersion educational model, through private activist associations. A second hypothesis (compatible with the first one) could be that, as for many other people of Iparralde, the ideological perception of these schools (nationalist and left-wing) drove her parents away. Ramuntxo Etxeberri also uses humor as his main rhetorical tool. On the basis of a cold sociolinguistic diagnosis (Basque young readers in Iparralde are almost non-existent, because there is no interest in reading and many times they have not enough linguistic competence even to become mere readers) and in a very pragmatic way, he writes to those almost non-existent readers. In other words, he lowers his language level to that of the readers (he has even confessed it openly!) and speaks directly to those hypothetical readers (many chapters are written in second person), without giving up literary ambition (he has a Master’s degree in French from the University of Bordeaux) and without trying to proselytise for Basque language. This way, with Skyroom he offers a thriller, worthy and entertaining, which explores the history of Iparralde’s society and of the protagonist’s family. Still, unlike in the ikastolas’ generation, there is no family hagiography or activism on behalf of Basque language.

The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country423 The future of Iparralde’s literary subsystem Throughout these pages, I have predicted a very dark future for Iparralde’s Basque literature. During the last thirty years, Basque production has fallen into an almost subliterary stage (the only thing that matters is to keep publishing in Basque, regardless of quality and literary value), and coming out of this hole does not only depend on writers. Reasons aside, it is very difficult for a literature to flourish when a language is dying. Literature’s rise and boom in Hegoalde (to the point of becoming the core of the Basque literary system) is closely related to the extra-literary support and aid that the Basque language receives, first through the Statute of Autonomy of the Second Spanish Republic, and then by means of the second Statute of Autonomy during the Spanish transition to democracy. Protected under the law and subsidized with public aid, the Basque language has been able to make great progress, and together with it, literature. The institutional history of Iparralde, however, becomes completely sterile after French revolution. The situation of the French state is a dark exception inside Europe. France is the one of the few states that has not ratified the Charter for Minority Languages. Considering this blockade, it seems difficult for Iparralde’s Basque (and thus literature) to get back on its feet. Nonetheless, the situation has changed and improved a little bit over the last ten years. A French constitutional amendment in 2008 acknowledged regional languages as “French patrimony” for the first time (Art. 75.1). After the Constitutional Council of May 2011, the hopes raised by this change fell significantly, since it was specified that regional languages by no means have the same legal status as French (they are not official) and that this new constitutional amendment does not entail a collective right in practice. Still, it is a sign that a movement in favor of reviving minority languages in France is rising. Recently, there has been some progress in educational laws. Likewise, the State is starting to draw a positive language policy, with the founding of the Public Institutions of Basque and Breton Languages. In 2004, Euskararen Erakunde Publikoa or Office Publique de la Langue Basque was created (Public Institution of the Basque Language), which is located in Bayonne, and, since then, it has been working to help revive language in Iparralde. Recent language studies have shown that Basque knowledge levels have improved a little among young people (children below the age of ten). If the future of Basque in Iparralde improves in the next ten years, one might then see which place its writers will claim inside the general Basque literary system. Also, it remains to be seen which language model would prevail — a register similar to Hegoalde’s standard that makes assimilation easier, or a completely different one based on the region’s rich literary tradition and history?

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal An overview of the literature translated in periods of dictatorship in the Iberian Peninsula Cristina Gómez Castro Literary works have been submitted to different types of repression all over the world and in different times and contexts; the censoring regimes of Franco in Spain and Salazar (and later Caetano) in Portugal are clear examples of this fact. Both dictators considered that their countries were the moral reserve of the West and they firmly believed that, as such, they should be preserved from external and damaging influences. The policy of cultural protectionism they exercised implied the adaptation of all native and foreign information to the cultural requirements of the dominant regimes and a system of official censorship was installed with the task of looking after the ideological uniformity of each nation. Narrative texts therefore saw how either the scissors of the censors or the prosecution of the police force affected them in the effort by the authorities to “whiten” their content or prevent their publication, a sort of cleaning that was carried out slightly differently in each country, but with a common aim. The path followed by both censoring regimes was in fact quite similar, if possible even more systematic in the keeping of records in the case of Spain. The evolution of the literary polysystem went in both cases from a situation where one could say they were suffering from a kind of invasion of translations, in the 1940s, to a gradual cloning of the patrons and their perpetuation by national writers. An overview of how the book-controlling system affected literature, both written in the country and imported, in both regimes will be carried out here with the aim of improving the current view of two periods that are frequently looked at from different angles but not completely seen as a whole.

Franco’s Spain and Salazar’s Portugal: Two countries, one aim Contextual information about the period in which narratives and translations are published is essential to understanding how the issues of power, censorship, and translation are so closely linked: “literary texts cannot be interpreted in a timeless, aesthetic never-never-land” (Leerssen 2007, 28) and translations are “facts of the culture which hosts them,” closely linked to the context in which they are produced (Toury 2012, 24). A look at the context of Portugal and Spain during the dictatorships of Salazar and Franco seems thus mandatory in order to understand how the literature (both national production and translations) published in those periods was embedded in the system. The Estado Novo (New State) in Portugal was established after a coup d’état that put an end to a seventeen-year period of Republican government (1910–26). The period under Salazar’s (and later Caetano’s) rule was a very long one, running from 1933 until 1974 (41 years), even longer than Franco’s dictatorship in Spain, which was official from 1939 until 1975, the year of the death of the dictator (36 years). The duration of both regimes is unique, making them comparable but at the same time separating them on a chronological basis from other political regimes which doi 10.1075/chlel.29.35gom © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal425 shared similar characteristics, such as German National Socialism or Italian Fascism, whose political life was relatively shorter. As well-noted by María Carmen García Nieto and Javier M. Donezar García Nieto (1975), some of the fundamental principles of Franco’s regime were “anticommunism,” “nationalist feeling,” “Catholicism,” and “Spanishness,” which were in harmony with those stated by the dictator in Portugal (Salazar 1939, 29): “we are anti-parliamentarians, anti-democrats, anti-liberals, and we are determined to establish a corporative State” and his aim to institutionalize its portugalidade (Portugality; Seruya 2010). The nationalistic feeling, represented strongly in two of the most well-known mottos of both countries: “nada contra a Nação, tudo pela Nação” (All for the nation, nothing against the nation; Salazar 1935, 263) and “España: Una, Grande y Libre” (Spain: One, Big, and Free), makes clear that the main objective of both dictators was to bring glory to their countries. To achieve this goal, they abided by very conservative and strict principles and followed a very Christian and Catholic identity. This would have consequences in the cultural sphere of both countries, and would be reflected in the censoring mechanism established as a means to control what was being published. From the very beginning of the Spanish regime, the Church had always been one of the main pillars of Franco, taking active part in the politics of the country and enjoying the privilege of being free of official prosecution (Fraga 1966, 76). However, this situation changed progressively with the passing of time and the opening of the country to external influences, up to a point that this had a significant impact on the relationship, leading to one of the biggest crises between the Church and the State in the 1970s. On the ideological level, it was clear by then that “the spectacular ‘corrective’ measures of public morality and religiosity that had been in force since the end of the Civil War had not really taken root among the common people” (Gutiérrez Lanza 2002, 151). In Portugal, religion was a very influential source in Salazar’s thought, since he was himself deeply religious and infused with Roman Catholic precepts. During his dictatorship, the Church was to be separate from the State but to enjoy a special position, maintaining a mutually reinforcing relationship (Solsten 1993). Dissent and criticism were not allowed, and to be Portuguese meant to be Catholic, something which holds true even today (see Seruya 2010, 118). The changes that started to take place politically speaking in the last year of Franco’s regime implied a period of important reforms: they witnessed the death of the dictator in 1975 and the transition to democracy until the establishment of a Constitution in 1978. In the meanwhile, Franco had designated Carrero Blanco as Prime Minister, this being the first time this political post was separated from that of the Head of State. This man was trusted by the dictator and was supposed to give continuity to his previous work, but he was killed in a terrorist act in December 1973. The bomb that killed him also gave a mortal blow to Franco’s political regime. Thus, the continuity of the dictatorship after the death of the Caudillo became something less and less feasible with the passing of time. With the demise of the dictator in 1975 and the ensuing transition to democracy, the country embarked on a new period which had its main culmination in the Constitution that was issued in 1978 and the consequent freedom of expression that it finally established. In Portugal, the period of the 1940s was known as the “Iron Years” and saw the implementation of the “Spirit Policy” by António Ferro: “by spirit policy we understand the defense of spiritual values against the increasing wave of materialism in life” (Azevedo 1999, 46), which had as one of its main objectives in the cultural sphere the favoring of artists by creating a convenient atmosphere for them. However, this policy failed, and to the common outcry regarding the lack of national talent followed the “Lead years” decade, when an apparent quietness seemed to be in

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place (Rosas 1994). This, however, did not impede the progressive deterioration of the regime: “the beginning of the end of Salazar’s regime” was the 1958 presidential election, associated with the phenomenon known as “Delgado’s earthquake” (Rosas 1994, 523). These facts increased the tensions underlying the apparently quiet years. A decade later, Salazar conceded his position to his successor Marcello Caetano, thus renewing the Portuguese people’s hopes for an openness in the regime. The period, known as Primavera Marcellista (Marcellist Spring) introduced some reforms, mainly in the field of education, but was mainly characterized by its “renovação na continuidade” (renovation in continuity). A very important point of the Estado Novo, which is not shared by Franco’s Spain and which helps understanding the regime’s identity, is the question of the overseas territories or those “pedaços de Portugal disseminados pelo mundo” (pieces of Portugal spread over the world; Salazar 1935, 10). During Franco’s period, Spain also lost its protectorates in Africa, but this loss was not as dramatic as the Portuguese one, and although it contributed (together with many other factors) to the weakening of the regime, it was not closely linked to its overthrow. The Portuguese regime’s abolition was directly related to the Colonial Wars and meant the beginning of a new period in the history of the country.

Literary polysystem in Spain and Portugal under the dictatorship: Translations at stake Literary contacts between different literary traditions are a frequent phenomenon and form part of the cultural dynamism that any literary polysystem should experience (Even-Zohar 1990). Both national panoramas in Spain and Portugal at the beginning of the dictatorial regimes were characterized by a cultural desert regarding native production: the Spanish polysystem had suffered from the exile of important authors due to the Civil War (1936–39) that led to the establishment of the dictatorship and also due to the “internal exile” of those who remained but saw themselves subjected to censorship and silence. In Portugal, illiteracy was an issue (several policies were implemented to diminish it, and they were relatively successful, such as the creation of traveling libraries and the emphasis on the adult education; see Melo 2004), and the dictator himself “deplored the lack of national artistic talent” (Seruya & Moniz 2008, 5), echoing publishers and booksellers in their complaint about the poor quality of the production carried out in the country (Seruya 2010, 124). Although quite a lot has been written about national literature both in Portugal and Spain under the dictatorships (see, for example, Álvarez Palacios 1975, A. Beneyto 1975, J. Beneyto 1987, or Blas 1999 for the Spanish case; and Almeida Rodriguez 1980, N. Medeiros 2010, or Rendeiro 2010 for the Portuguese one), not much is known about foreign literature during those periods. This is the premise that led to the creation of research groups in both countries with the goal of mapping the history of translated literature: the “Intercultural Literature in Portugal 1930–2000: A Critical Bibliography” project was launched in 2007 by the University of Lisbon Centre for English Studies and the Centre for Communication and Culture – Catholic University of Lisbon in order to produce a critical bibliography of translated literature published in book form in Portugal for such a span of time, thus including the Estado Novo and its production. It is coordinated by Teresa Seruya, Alexandra Assis Rosa, and Maria Lin Moniz, and it has seen its fruits in several publications by its research members and the online publication of its free online database which covers data from 1930 until now (over 9,000 entries;

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal427 see ). In Spain, the Group TRACE has been the one leading the research on the field. It began around the year 1997, when a group of scholars from the Department of Modern Languages of the University of León () and from the University of the Basque Country () decided to tackle a coordinated study of the history of translations in twentieth-century Spain with the ultimate goal of researching translation practices to look for explanations of current translation behavior. Many researchers have been involved in the task so far, and many articles and PhD theses have been derived from it, helping to complete the pieces of the puzzle and to widen the vision of the most recent history of translation in Spain. The narrative production of Spain during the first years of the dictatorship followed the path that literary polysystems normally track in the case of a major crisis: scarce national production and a big dependency on translations, which makes them occupy a central position (Even-Zohar 1990, 47). Thus, it was only after a period dominated by some kind of alarmism and realism, and once the horrors of the Civil War had started to recede from the literary scene, that the time for experimenting with new forms and models came to be. Some authors dared to innovate with the form, following Luis Martín Santos and his Tiempo de Silencio (Time of silence, 1962), whereas others preferred to resort to tradition and conjugate it with contemporary innovation, something that was sometimes favored by the existence of literary prizes established in the previous decade. This establishment of literary prizes was an action taken by the government with the aim of promoting national production, but it was not as successful as expected. On the whole, the period is distinguished by what may be called a “literary malaise” (Herzberger 1981), in which no special national achievements can be signalled. This situation was intensified by the progressive weakening of the official system of censorship, because the final ending of book control revealed that it was not the main cause of the literary production lethargy: able to write freely, Spanish writers saw that most of the time their production was not of a higher quality, since expressing with no obstacles what they had expressed before in a veiled way was not the solution everybody had been expecting. The situation of the Portuguese national production suffered from a similar malaise, favorable to translations: as indicated above, illiteracy had to be fought against, and, besides, culture planning (Toury 2003, 403) was established, in an effort to create a new order and thus intervene in the national production. In Portugal “political control was basically founded on keeping the population in relative ignorance of other economic, social and cultural alternatives” (Gombár 2013, 271), preserving the country from external influences that could put the Portugalidade in danger. The creation of a Secretariado da Propaganda Nacional (Secretariat of National Propaganda; SPN from now onwards) in 1933 — renamed Secretariado Nacional da Informação, Cultura Popular e Turismo in 1944, and later on, in 1968, Secretaria de Estado da Informação e Turismo — was one of the most important steps in this direction, and meant the beginning of a battle “against error, lies, slander and simple ignorance” (Sapega 2008, 9). Among the actions carried out by the SPN, it is worth noting the recovery or revitalizing strategy it undertook regarding traditional manifestations, mainly involving the fields of cinema, theatre, dance, and tourism (Melo 2011). However, literature was one of the fields where more opposition was encountered towards alternative proposals to the existing production. From the 1960s onwards, a feeling of compromise would be strongly felt in the national literary discourse, denouncing the excesses of the political system and the cruelty of the actions undertaken in the African colonies. The

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regime did not hesitate when the official measures were not obeyed, and it promptly “promoted the police-political sanitation” although “forced reason did not achieve a total neutralization of the autonomous creation of alterity” (Melo 2011, 125). The invasion of translations (see Moret 2002, 64 and Seruya 2010, 122) that took place in both countries in the period is a significant fact that should be taken into account when mapping the literary history of the Iberian Peninsula. In Portugal, “translation always constituted a significant part of that literary culture, although not always acknowledged and interiorized” (Seruya 2009, 72). Spain also depended very much on translations for a long time: it was receiving foreign material, especially from English-speaking countries, which came to form an important part of its literary polysystem. Despite the common link that Spain had always shown with France, “the postwar period is the low production time of French cultural production in Spanish” (Vega Cernuda 2004, 545) mainly due to the bad political relations the two countries were experiencing by then. This is a feature shared by Portugal, where, despite the common perception of a French dominance (see Seruya 2009, 83), “the dominant source culture for translation into Portuguese is Spain, at least after the 1940s” (Seruya 2010, 126). The translated narrative which best accommodated Spain’s regime’s postulates at the beginning was not the contemporary English novel, but the typical Victorian novel from authors such as Brontë, Thackeray, or Thomas Hardy. These were novels that brought the reader away from the pitiful reality of the Spain of the 1940s. Besides, editors tended to publish what was qualified as “kind literature,” i.e., that written by authors such as Baring, Benoit, Du Maurier, Maugham, Cecil Roberts, Vicky Baum, or Pearl S. Buck. These kinds of importations were designed to entertain the reading public and at the same time avoid problems with the official system of censorship (Gómez Castro 2006). In the Portugal of the 1940s, canonical French authors were translated, such as Balzac, Zola, or Voltaire, but also big English names, among them Somerset Maugham, Austen, and Wilde (Seruya 2010). It would not be until the change in the political relations between Portugal and the USA that the introduction of American titles would take place in Portugal: England had always been an alley of the Lusitanian country, and this enhanced the literary permeations between the two nations. However, the United States of America was seen as a far-off and unknown country, where morals were too dissolute for the conservative principles of Portugal (Seruya 2009, 78–79). However, the change in political relations, owing to the help provided by Portugal during WWII by means of the military bases, meant that titles belonging to North American authors started to see light in the publishing market: Twain, Poe, and Hawthorne, among others (Seruya 2010). As time passed and the Portuguese and Spanish societies started to receive more influences from abroad, translations of mass literature and pseudo-translations (for this concept, see Toury 2012, 40) started taking over the publishing market. This made them dangerous because they were “available to those belonging to the less learned classes, who might be exposed to harmful effects by reading them” (Seruya & Moniz 2008, 18; extracted from an official censoring report). The literary market based an important part of its profit on them, and therefore they had to be presented to the public in aseptic versions which the censors had already approved. The kind of material chosen to be imported started then to be dependent mainly on the economic benefit the books could generate, and therefore most of the narratives bought by the publishing houses were purchased because of previous success in North America, or even worldwide. The introduction of these best sellers in Spain would have relevant consequences for native literary production

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal429 since the imports brought a new atmosphere of freedom to the changing Spanish scene: themes and topics which would have been simply forbidden in the case of a national product would be allowed mainly because they were representative of a different culture; but at the same time, they will leave a trace that will set a path for the ensuing native best sellers, which will try to imitate the foreign models. Thus, we can say that translations from English constituted a quantitatively central and innovative element in the Spanish polysystem of that time, even if occasionally hindered by the official moral guards. The kind of mass literature translated in Portugal was represented to a great extent by British detective and spy stories (with authors such as Agatha Christie or John Le Carré) and youth literature and science fiction; and by authors such as Stanley Gardner, Mickey Spillane, Asimov, or Bradbury on the North American side (Seruya 2010, 128). Spain was also a leading source country for translations in Portugal, with an important part of those importations belonging to what can be considered as pseudotranslations: authors such as M. Lafuente Estefanía presented themselves under different names to the reading public, always with an English reminiscence, so that their works could be taken as translations and therefore enjoy the favor of the literary market as well as the authorization of the censors: “the Portuguese censors’ apparent lenience — or perhaps negligence — with respect to literature in English is particularly interesting. It is as if the prestigious status of British and American literature in Portugal provided more protection against censorship than local literature” (Gombár 2013, 266). This was normally true in Spain as well when dealing with canonical literature, since those books were exempted from revision by law. However, mass literature in translation suffered from the same level of erasures and changes as the national production did. In Portugal, censorship was less strict towards foreign books when they were written in the foreign language and, therefore, less available for the masses, and, likewise in Spain, “the censors were well aware of the many ways used to evade their judgements” (Seruya 2010, 138; see Gómez Castro 2007 for a comprehensive list of the possible strategies and negotiations followed both by publishers and writers/translators in order to get their books authorized in Francoist Spain). The non-existence of pre-publication censorship for books in the Lusitan country, as I am about to analyze, is a clear indicator of the relative unimportance of this cultural production in the whole culture plan of the dictatorship (Seruya 2010, 140). The end of the Estado Novo witnessed confusion on several levels, with new aesthetic conceptions and new cultural perspectives in Caetano’s phase. This influenced the literary scene, which could start including potentially subversive ideas that could not be opposed by a decaying regime that did not understand their logic and aesthetics (Torgal 2003, 196).

South American translations in Spain / Ultramar influence in Portugal At the end of the Spanish Civil War and with the beginning of Franco’s political regime, many intellectuals went into exile in Spanish America and founded publishing houses there with the idea of publishing all the material that was not allowed in their native country. Mexico and Argentina were the countries that established the closest links with Spain, and thus most benefited from the interchange of material. The geographical closeness of these countries with North America, together with financial interests, favored the importation of books in English to be translated in Spanish America and then published also in Spain, where they would have to go through the

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system of official control. The translators working in Spanish America were in a different situation from those working in Spain, where they knew their translations would have to comply with the moral demands of Francoist regime. However, their work was not completely free of constraints, since they also had to operate in a restrictive environment, especially in the case of Argentina. The idea of a pan-Hispanic translation which could be commercialized in all Spanish-speaking countries at the time seemed almost impossible since, as stated at the beginning of this chapter, translations are intimately linked to the context where they take place and therefore Spanish censors were not prone to tolerate what was permitted in other countries with no system of book control. The obsession of these men with the purity of the language was also prevailing in most of their verdicts (Herrero-Olaizola 2007), something which led to changes in the geographically marked versions of the translations. Portugal’s overseas territories during the Estado Novo were a source of pride for the regime and at the same time a source of conflict, as they ended up proving at the overthrow of the dictatorship. Contrary to the situation in South America, no publishing house could be established overseas unless it gave proof of its healthy financial status to the inland territory, something which complicated considerably their possibility of being founded by autochthonous people (Azevedo 1999, 359–60). The application of censorship in the colonies was even more arbitrary than in Portugal, up to the point that “works authorized by the censorship mechanism to circulate all over the national territory ended up being banned in the colonies” (Azevedo 1999, 361). The situation changed with the end of the regime. Once Marcello Caetano’s period had ended with the revolution on April 25, 1974, the intellectual environment proved to be more open, free from the limitations imposed by the dictatorship, and with the possibility of a cultural proximity between the elite and the masses while the tensions provoked by the colonial problem were still unsolved. The line seemed to follow neither a reactionary nor a revolutionary kind of literature, but the example provided by the Latin-American literature (a fusion of cultures) and in particular by modern Brazilian literature (Machado 1983). Postcolonial writing then became an example of how the dominant language brings with it all the cultural apparatus of the colonial culture, in a contaminating way typical of the “writing back” that tends to take place when freedom of expression is restored after the end of the censoring mechanism and the imperial government (Hernández 2007).

Culture and patronage forces: Book censorship According to André Lefevere (1992, 14), in any polysystem there is a regulatory element which controls what enters the recipient culture and what does not: it is called patronage, i.e. “something like the powers (persons, institutions) that can further or hinder the reading, writing and rewriting of literature.” In the cases under study here, Francoist Spain and Salazar’s and Caetano’s Portugal, the regulatory mechanism par excellence was the official system of censorship, which was responsible for the introduction of new artistic elements in the country. Official state censorship was legitimized in Spain from 1938 onwards with the aim of “establishing the primacy of the truth and spreading the general doctrine of the Movement” (Abellán 1980, 15). Restrictive measures through official channels were implemented to prevent

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal431 the circulation of ideas contrary to the nation’s interest. The official organism responsible for censorship at the time was what came to be known in 1951 as the Ministry of Information and Tourism (MIT, from now onwards). Different Ministers were in charge of it performing their censorial tasks with greater or lesser severity depending on the situation of the country. Censorship in Portugal started to take its first steps after the military movement of May 28, 1926, established at the beginning as a transitory measure which nevertheless saw its continuation under Salazar and Caetano until 1974 (Azevedo 1999). Its main aim was to prevent the perversion of public opinion and thus preserve the Portugalidade of the country. “The most relevant legislation concerning Censorship was produced in the 1930s and 1940s” (Seruya & Moniz 2008, 7). It actually became legitimized in 1944, with the official Decree Nº 33454 of February 23. The word “censorship” was overtly used in the country, and it formed part of the different organs involved in its execution: the censoring commission for books began its work in 1934. Books were mainly censored by the Censorship Directorate, which became part of the SNI in 1944. However, the SNI was under the direct supervision of the Prime Minister of Portugal, António de Oliveira Salazar (Decree Nº 33545). Books were not subject to pre-publication censorship in Portugal, so it was only after publication that they reached the Commission. For this to take place, active cooperation from both the political police or PIDE/DGS and the Post Office was needed (Seruya 2010, 129). In the Spanish context, one of the crucial achievements of the Ministry was the elaboration of a Law of Press and Print in 1966. The main visible head of this change was the Minister in charge of the MIT by then, Manuel Fraga Iribarne. This law changed how the system of censorship had been working until then, because after it control was based mainly on two procedures: previous consultation or advance censorship, which could result in a positive or negative report about the book under review, and the depósito (archiving) of the printed work in the aforementioned Ministry, without the need for a censor’s judgment. The latter could, however, mean the sequestration or confiscation of the book by the authorities if, once on the market, it was believed that its distribution should be avoided. Thus, while granting permission for book production to go ahead without the regime’s direct supervision, archiving could result in significant economic losses for publishers. While archiving and previous consultation were designed to facilitate the distribution of printed material, another meaningful change in the law was its redefinition of silencio administrativo (official silence). This formula was used by censors when they had certain objections to the content of a work but still foresaw benefits in authorizing its publication. By legally declaring silence, the authorities did not explicitly approve of a given book or support its moral content; they simply abstained from blocking its commercial distribution. The last important change in the Portuguese legislation took place after ill health forced the withdrawal of the dictator and once Marcelo Caetano had been designated as his successor, in 1968: as with Fraga in Spain, the Portuguese had hoped for a more liberal country, but “Decree Nº 150/72, of May 5, 1968, while abolishing the main censorship organ (Direcção Geral dos Serviços de Censura), maintained the whole philosophy of the social role of censorship” (Seruya 2010, 130). Therefore the anxiously awaited freedom of expression under the Marcelist Spring did not materialize. However, a progressive change in the censors’ verdicts was already observable in the seventies. When problematic books were confiscated after being published, similar to what happened in Spain with the archiving option, publishing houses could go bankrupt. Besides,

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imported books were strictly examined by custom officials, which meant that no foreign book could easily enter the country without official inspection (Gombár 2012, 195). Concerning the topics writers and translators were cautious of when working, in the Spanish regime there were some specific fields that prevailed as taboo with more or less force during the years Spain was ruled by Franco: they can be summed up in the following (Abellán 1980, 88): 1. 2. 3. 4.

Sexual morals: specially banned were any kind of references to abortion, homosexuality, divorce and extramarital relationships. Political beliefs: any kind of opposition to the regime was not tolerated. Use of language that can be considered as indecorous, provocative and incongruous with the good manners which must govern the behaviour of those people who define themselves as being decent. Religion: attacks on it as an institution and as a hierarchy.

However, in general, the application of censoring criteria varied depending on the degree of ideological conviction of the Minister in charge (Merino & Rabadán 2002, 125), and this fact led sometimes to the exercise of self-censorship on the part of the writers and translators. At the same time, the apparent leniency that was practiced sometimes paved the way for negotiations and behind-the-scenes maneuvering among the different agents involved in the processes of translating, editing, and censoring, thus permitting the entrance of new ideas and concepts into the country. Regarding the Portuguese dictatorship, the Censoring Commission followed a very general assessment criterion which implied that “no author or theme was a priori and categorically to be rejected, that is, each case was specific” (Seruya 2010, 132). On the whole, the same four topics which were carefully watched in the Spanish case were also subject to scrutiny in Portugal: books were banned if they were offensive to the Catholic morality regarding marriage, adultery, homosexuality, contraception, abortion, suicide, etc. Violent scenes that were described in detail were also a source of conflict, and obscene language was discouraged as well by the authorities (Gombár 2012, 195). It can therefore be appreciated that the topics were very similar in both dictatorships. If broad categories had to be established for banning in Portugal, though, Seruya and Moniz suggest the following (2008, 12 ff.): – Propaganda (proselytize, apology) – Sexual morality, social dissolution doctrine – Realism (a stigmatizing judgement, meaning, in this corpus, “how things really are”) – “Elites” or “the learned” vs. “the many” – “Speculation” – Discomfort in relation to National Socialism (NS) and democracy and to war As both authors also state, it seemed that this agenda clearly exemplified the antidemocratic feeling of the Estado Novo or “the famous Republic of Il-lusitania” (Azevedo 1999, 24 ff.). The imbalance between the rigid censorship mechanism and the growing tolerance and permissiveness in other countries had increased from 1966 onwards, when film censorship had disappeared in countries such as the United States, Sweden, and Denmark. This was when the revolution in premarital relationships and “petting” between couples in discos and cinemas also started to take hold, in a clear reflection of how the functioning of both censoring regimes had to come to an end sooner or later.

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal433 Censorship and narrative translation: An example Once the criteria for banning and the state of the art of translations in both countries during the dictatorship have been specified, it is worthwhile to stop to have a look at one example of mass literature that was being translated and sold profusely at the time. The example has been chosen according to the criteria of accessibility to the documents and to the comparison possibility that it allowed in terms of official documents. The novel exemplified in this section is entitled The exorcist, written by William Peter Blatty in 1971. In order to produce the novel, Blatty was inspired by the case of the exorcism of a fourteen-year-old boy in Maryland whose story he had heard when studying at Georgetown University. The novel rapidly caught readers’ attention and in the USA alone it sold 13 million copies. The reviews it received both praised and attacked it (for examples of contemporary reviews, see ) and the novel was turned into an enormously popular film. (When it was released in Spain, the great majority — if not all — of the objectionable scenes had been either softened or eliminated from the tape; see Catálogo COITE 1951–75 & Gutiérrez Lanza 2000.) “Exorcist” and “exorcism” seemed to become fashionable words at the time in North America, and a series of books and films focusing on paranormal events assured the success of The exorcist. The exorcist facing Spanish censorship The novel arrived in Spain in 1971, and it enjoyed a similar success to that achieved in North America, quickly hitting the best sellers’ lists. The first time the official readers examined the book they did it in English and it seemed to please them since they considered that the topic was treated with absolute cleanliness and in the end good triumphed over evil. However, some erasures were advised which had to be taken into account if the book was to be published. These erasures concerned obscene expressions and some passages they considered too strong for the Spanish reading public (for example, the section where Regan, the possessed girl, masturbates with a crucifix). This strategy of submitting the text first in English allowed the publishing houses to know in advance what parts of the books they submitted were problematic for the authorities, and therefore to guide the translators working for them accordingly. However, when the publishing house presented the Spanish translation of the text for consultation, they used the Argentinean translation done by Raquel Albornoz and already commercialized in that country. Once the censors examined it, they came to the conclusion that the text could be approved if the translation was rectified mainly concerning the use of some rude and vulgar expressions whose pages were signaled in the report. This done, the novel was given the green light and its reprints were common throughout the decade, a symptom of the success it achieved among Spanish readers. A search in the Official Spanish Database, or AGA, of the title El Exorcista (the name of the published book in Spain) rendered 19 results (Gómez Castro 2009, 226). Those files end in the year 1982, year in which the recording was officially over. A study of the official censoring documents of the novel allows us to know the censors’ ideas concerning it, which we sum up below,

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reproducing literally the censor’s words (censoring file 8665–71; in this particular case, the censor signs with his name and surname, something unusual in most of the files): It is a gripping book that, should it happen to be properly supported in the commercial field, could become a bestseller, due to interest in the subject and the pleasant and fluid style the author uses. It centers on a matter of demonic possession and the scenes are truly frightening. From a strictly orthodox point of view, there is nothing to hold against the novel, because the Catholic Church admits the existence of demonic possessions and it uses among its rites those pertaining to exorcisms. Furthermore, the priests in the story are described with endearment and everything is kept within the boundaries of the utmost orthodoxy. However, due to the great power exhibited by the demon and having the Jesuit priest die being the solution for the conflict, there was a fear that the public would assume Satan is more powerful than the Church, but, as previously mentioned, the demon is finally vanquished in a struggle, and it’s assumed that it has only possessed a single girl’s body. We have underlined some expressions that could be translated vulgarly. Besides, paragraphs considered too strong or violent for the Spanish audience, have been stripped from the novel (Introduction and other pages with pencil scribblings on the side). That’s why you should hand over a translation. TO SUMMARIZE: AUTHORIZED, but there will be some erasures; a translation must be delivered.

It can be seen that the censor’s comment on the novel is quite positive: the fact that good triumphs over bad seems to be decisive to authorize it. Nonetheless, it has to be taken into account that the work the censor has read is the one written in English, since, as he states, “the translation should be submitted to the censoring control.” It then may be inferred that the publishing house that presented the book, Plaza y Janés, considered it more risky to present a translation than the English version, due to the scarce linguistic formation commonly attributed to the censors (Abellán 1978). The same work might be given to more than one censor for evaluation, but this does not imply the coincidence in their judgments. In this specific case, another opinion was expressed by a second censor: THE EXORCIST is a novel whose main topic focuses on the clinical case of an 11 or 12 yearold girl who experiences strange para psychical phenomena: knowledge of foreign languages, thought prediction, levitation, etc. After several medical explorations, she is subjected to a psychiatric treatment, which gives no result at all. Following the doctors’ advice, a Jesuit priest, who is a psychiatrist specialized in Satanism cases, visits her. A Catholic exorcism takes place with all precaution and the result is the mysterious death of both the Jesuit priest who was a psychiatrist and the priest practicing the exorcism. The book treats the topic with all respect. It is inspired by other strange cases of odd Para psychical and Satanism phenomena, in particular the case of the desecration of Catholic church due to the celebration of a Black Mass. The objective of the work seems to be the confirmation of the reality of those phenomena and the mystery — both scientific and religious — that surrounds them. The already signaled texts of the Preliminary section and of pages 145 and 190 to 191 offer some difficulty. Besides, rude expressions are frequent (pages are signaled in the original). Having said this, and once the translation has been revised regarding those expressions; this book can be considered as AUTHORIZED

Later on, once the translation of the book had been submitted for evaluation, the following paragraph was added to this comment:

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal435 (Once the terms or expressions from the pages: 4, 5, 7, 8, 13, 14, 15, 22, 24, 27, 31, 33, 37, 40, 44, 44, 48, 50, 65, 75, 76, 78, 85, 86, 89, 91, 92, 99, 104, 105, 106, 107, 111, 114, 129, 134, 137, 138, 146, 147 have been suppressed; the original verdict of AUTHORIZATION is maintained)

On this occasion, the censor, who is anonymous this time, underlines the fact that the work is addressing the topic with all respect and it again makes reference to the need of revising the translation in order to give approval to the publication of the book. An official notification is then sent to the publishing house, which does not submit the translation for voluntary consultation until March 20, 1972, i.e., five months after having received the official verdict. Once the translation is presented, it is one carried out in Argentina by the Argentinean translator Raquel Albornoz as previously indicated. It is now that, after the reading of the translation into Spanish has been completed, a new official letter is sent to the publishing house, stating the following: As a reply to your submission on the 20-3-72 regarding the book “THE EXORCIST” — William Peter Blatty, it is advisable to delete the passages which are signaled in the following pages 22, 27, 31, 48, 65, 75, 76, 85, 86, 91, 92, 99, 106, 107, 111, 114, 134, 137.

The erasures finally advised to the publication were, as it can be observed, many less than the ones considered necessary the first time. From the latter, some more were eliminated later: it was not deemed pertinent to erase pages 27, 31, 99, 111 and 114. Plaza y Janés sent an official confirmation on September 12, 1972 of the attachment of the galley proofs where the official indications had been followed. The official confirmation of the authorization was issued on September 19, 1972, almost a year after the first entrance of the novel into the system. This is a symptom of the slowness of the Spanish bureaucracy and of “the special thoroughness and insistence” of book censorship compared to that of the cinema, for example (Neuschäfer 1994, 51). Once the archiving of the book had been done, it could be sold in the bookstores, and it became a best seller. The wait was therefore worthwhile for the publishing house. Once the book was authorized, the rest of the censoring files limit themselves to ratifying this decision, something which has proven to be a regular behavior regarding novels. The lack of uniform legislation concerning book censoring (as was the case for the cinema, according to Gutiérrez Lanza 2000), characterized the censoring action with some inconsistency, a fact which disoriented both writers and publishers, but was precisely one of its most powerful weapons (Sánchez Reboredo 1987, 88). Regarding the translation, a macro and a micro-structural analysis carried out revealed that when The exorcist was translated into Spanish by Raquel Albornoz the translation was done following an overall strategy of adequacy (following Venuti 1998’s dichotomy, “domestication” could be assimilated to acceptability, whereas “foreignization” would be the same as “adequacy”) to the English source text, i.e., trying to preserve the English expressions, something which was confirmed by the same translator. However, changes were still needed, as has been just stated, changes which were responsible for the inclination of the final publication in Spanish towards the acceptability pole regarding sexual morals and the use of improper language, the two aspects which were usually most closely controlled by the censors at the time. Religion and politics issues were, however, left as they were, confirming that the changes in society were overriding the ideological principles of the dictatorship. The huge success of the novel is corroborated by its multiple reprints; the book is still for sale in bookshops, most likely with the same translation as the one done in the seventies.

Cristina Gómez Castro

436 The exorcist facing Portuguese censorship

The novel’s first publication in Portugal is documented in 1972, in an edition from Moraes Editores and translated by Maria Amélia O’Neil, a Portuguese translator of whom no more information has been found. As explained in a previous section, books in Portugal, both national and foreign, were not subject to previous censorship, a fact which explains the shorter history of the book with Portuguese censoring control and the date of the censoring report, which was issued two years later, when the novel was already circulating in Portuguese bookstores. Below I offer a transcription of the comments from the censoring file regarding this book (file number 170-DGI/GE): 1.

2.

3. 4.

It does not seem necessary to describe what this book is, since both the novel and the film derived from it have already been discussed and criticized. The plot tells the story of a girl who is possessed by the demon. It includes very shocking sections, which are the possession scenes, but the whole book mainly reveals the problems of Regan’s (the girl’s) mother and of the parents and doctors. One fact which is undeniable is that the book is not advisable for very readily influenced people. In the end, it is a book that is extremely positive regarding the religious aspect. First, because the priest who accompanies the girl and who shows some weakness in his faith, ends up finally with a very strong faith and suffers from some kind of agony, since he is possessed too and dies. Secondly, because it presents and proves the more traditional theses of the Church, such as the possibility of demonic possession and its expulsion. Thirdly, because it shows the triumph of the Church over the bad spirits, which is a triumphant conception of the Church which today seems to be abandoned and substituted by one depicting the Church as devoted to the social problems. Fourthly, because the entire book is embedded with an eternal conception of the Church, superior and beyond men who at every moment compose it. It is a violent and shocking book that has to be read straight away for the way it attracts the reader, but which contains in itself a positive lesson. This is not strange given that the author was a former student from the Society of Jesus. It is still necessary to examine if there is any violation of what was stated in the article number 60, number 3, from the Law-Decree number 150/72, of May 5.

It is true that this book deals with social character issues, as happens with the pinkest love romances, since this is also a story that takes place in society. It cannoy be doubted that religious problems are social problems, but are they “social” in the legal sense? It doesn’t seem so, since in case of an affirmative answer very few or no books would stay out of the reach of the legal precept mentioned.

By way of conclusion From the reading of the censoring report it can be inferred that the reasons arguing in favor of the free circulation of the book were very similar to the ones stated for the Spanish version: once again, the triumph of the good over the bad and the depiction of the Church as a victorious entity in a typical image of a dictatorial regime suited the regime’s principles and therefore could be, and

Censorship and narrative at the crossroads in Spain and Portugal437 should be (for propaganda reasons), authorized. No mention is made of the sexually suggestive scenes involving the possessed girl, nor of the use of some blasphemous expressions throughout the book. Contrary to what had happened to the Spanish version, no other verdict was required, and no erasures were advised to the Portuguese translation. The rationale underlying this lack of changes is possibly the fact that, once the translation has been revised, it can be observed that the main problematic scenes have been either deleted or softened, together with some of the obscene language. This domestication strategy has to be attributed then to the task of the translator, since no official indication for it was recorded in the censoring mechanism. It has sometimes been stated that the true power of censorship was to turn writers into self-censors (Beneyto 1975, 158), an affirmation which can be extended to translators. A more detailed comparative study between the Spanish and the Portuguese versions and the English source text should be done in order to see if the results rendered by it confirm the fact that the scope of both censorship systems, even if different in their modus operandi, was similarly effective, as expected. The several intrasystemic movements that took place within the Portuguese and the Spanish literary polysystems under Franco and Salazar’s dictatorships made of translation, “by which new ideas, items and characteristics can be introduced into a literature, […] a means to preserve traditional taste” (Even-Zohar 1990, 49) due to the patronage exercised by the censorship imposed on them. The few ideas we have just exposed in this chapter had the main objective of outlining a panoramic view of the position of literature and, in particular, of translated literature, in the Portuguese and Spanish polysystems during the dictatorships of Franco and Salazar. Thus, it has been seen how “power holders […] wish to reinforce their positions by making an accommodating repertoire acceptable to larger sections of the population” (Even-Zohar 2010, 285) and therefore they implement culture planning with the aim of preserving the most precious values of their countries by preventing the entrance of foreign ideas via translation or interference. The paths followed by both countries were quite similar: they knew that “it is in the field of […] literature that national stereotypes are first and most effectively formulated, perpetuated and disseminated” (Leerssen 2007, 26) and so they tried to preserve them by resorting to coercive measures. The implementation of those measures differed at some points, something which did not prevent them from achieving their aims. The present chapter has explored some of these questions but it should nevertheless be taken as a starting point which would need further development and a more in-depth analysis in an effort to continue filling in the missing pieces in the exploration of transnational and inter-literary relations in the Iberian Peninsula.

Section IV. Cultural Studies and Literary Repertoires Coordinator: Anxo Abuín González

Forever young Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies Anxo Abuín González Literary studies in the Iberian Peninsula are resistant to significant change. Perhaps, in the Spanish sphere, this is due to the great influence of university structures, still grounded in area and departmental divisions linked to a strong philological tradition, impervious to the arrival and expansion of new theoretical paradigms. With very few exceptions, the Spanish academy has remained indifferent for too long to the onslaught of cultural studies, even in the case of the most epistemologically flexible areas, such as literary theory and comparative literature, which has had an institutional presence since 2001. According to Chantal Cornut-Gentille D’Arcy, who perhaps insists a little too much on the Spanish academy’s resistance to opening itself to theoretical contributions written in English, possibly due to linguistic insufficiency, “Spanish scholars (exceptions apart) turned a blind eye on this ‘fuzzy,’ ill-defined field of study, opting instead to continue fomenting research in their safely circumscribed, specialized ‘alcoves’ of knowledge. Much of the early momentum of Cultural Studies witnessed in other countries was thus lost in Spain” (2009, 858). Cultural studies, she continues, have undoubtedly not caught on in Spanish universities for psychological reasons (“prejudices against Cultural Studies practitioners”), material reasons (“the lack of posts, space and resources needed to fully support the success of Cultural Studies”), and institutional reasons (“routinized, organizational, departmental strategies that bar the more interdisciplinary nature of Cultural Studies”). The exceptions, for example, within English departments, are marginalized in many cases or located outside of the curricular system (Martín Alegre 2001). Hence, it is logical that any forward movement has come mainly from British and North American Hispanism, since English-language universities have had to coexist intensely with a different theoretical framework that advocated attention to peripheral and not canonical literary forms, in many cases from an openly political position, in a movement similar to that which has occurred in other European countries (Keskin 2013). This has been called the “cultural turn in literary scholarship” (Byrnes 2002, 118), which brings together “postcolonial and subaltern studies, gender and queer studies, critical race studies, film and media studies, science and technology studies” (Irwin & Szurmuk 2009, 41). Hence, we might look at the birth of the so-called “Spanish cultural studies” at the end of the last century, a discipline that from its beginnings has been interested in exploring contemporary Spanish cultural identity, very dynamic and urban, especially in the period between 1975 and the present (the post-Franco era), from a triple perspective. On one hand, it does not exclude the multilingual and plurinational reality of the Spanish state and recognizes the existence and the doi 10.1075/chlel.29.36abu © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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importance of alternative and marginalized narratives of gender and sexuality, of different ethnic and racial identities. On the other hand, it deals with “less noble” literary phenomena, like popular theater or pulp literature. Lastly, it broadens the focus to include (postmodern) narratives that are told through other media (film, television, comics, but also sports and photography, to cite just a few examples). Spanish cultural studies have thus developed as a historiographical project that is openly anti-canonical, constantly seeking the renewal of a theoretical and critical field (that of Hispanism, although, as we will see, this change also occurs in other Iberian linguistic traditions) that has proven highly resistant to accepting any change in the object of study or in the theoretical perspective. If we refer to the three lines mentioned above, we should recognize the appearance of socalled “Iberian studies,” whose base, as a disciplinary project, has been developed in a series of essays by Joan Ramon Resina. In his first piece, Resina advocates overcoming traditional Hispanism, because “it is now very difficult to academically rescue the discipline’s traditional canon, except by giving it new relevance” (2009, 27), that is, by adjusting the place of literature within the framework of contemporary Iberism, which would help establish “a more dynamic Hispanism which is more receptive to historical change to the different patterns of consciousness (what we might call changeable constellations of relevance” (92) that circulate between the different nations (with their different cultural memories) that make up the Peninsula. Iberian studies are thus constructed almost as a consciously transformative practice, which recognize the “twilight” of national philologies and seek greater intellectual rigor. In Resina’s second major contribution, Iberian studies are defined as a new paradigm that proposes a dissenting disciplinarity, whose provocative character depends on “its intrinsic relationality and its reorganization of monolingual fields based on nation-states and their postcolonial extensions into a Peninsular plurality of cultures and languages pre-existing and coexisting with the official cultures of the state” (2013, vii). The essays included in this volume, especially in the first part, evidence a displacement of literary studies toward cultural studies, as Luisa Elena Delgado (2013) notes in her article, which positions Iberian studies closer to the new currents in comparative literature and to the drift toward what we can call a “juxtapositional approach” (Friedman 2011). As Sebastiaan Faber had already discussed, Iberian (cultural) studies “can, at least in part, be seen as an attempt by leading figures in Peninsular Hispanism — particularly in Britain and the United States — to reinvent and reinvigorate a field that had found itself marginalized, and to overcome the disciplinary ideologies and practices that contributed to that marginalization” (2008, 8), starting by incorporating the contributions of comparative cultural studies, whose long-established theoretical formulation is owed to Steven Tötösy de Zepetnek (1998). Iberian studies must therefore open up to a pluricultural reality, and not only from a linguistic standpoint, since the object of study is now a “culture” understood in its links to the everyday and also in the great diversity of its media. In that sense, we should recall that Resina has also been one of the few literary scholars to introduce a line of research on the transformation of Spanish cities, which he inaugurated with a series of studies on Barcelona as the urban landscape of different novels written in Spanish and Catalan. Resina coined the term “after-image” (2001b, xii & 2008, 200) to refer to the creation of a new social imaginary that depends on the interaction between urban reality and its literary representation, understanding the city to be a cultural invention or artifact. Studies on Spanish cities’ evolution towards modernism-postmodernism and their literary and sociocultural implications are also an important branch of Spanish cultural studies. Consider, for example, Deborah

Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies441 L. Parsons’s book (2003) on the creation of Madrid as a cosmopolitan city in the first third of the twentieth century; and Hamilton M. Stapell’s book (2010), which deals with post-Franco Madrid starting with its conversion, especially after the dawn of La Movida (The Madrilenean scene) in the 1980s, into a dynamic, modern and culturally vibrant city, far from a regionalist conception that saw it as the quintessence of Spanishness. The same questioning of Hispanism can be found in the strongest current of Spanish cultural studies, that which deals with the other two lines mentioned above: identity and (inter) media studies. Since the 1980s, certain noteworthy voices have set the scene for an epistemological crisis. Barry Jordan (1984–85 & 1990), Michael McGaha (1990), Nicholas G. Round (1992–93), James Mandrell (1993) and Alberto Moreiras (1993–94) had already warned of the need to replace the exemplary analysis of a hegemonic Peninsular culture, so as to incorporate, on the one hand, the study of national “minorities” of the Spanish state and, on the other, to recognize the relevance of new comparative and theoretical approaches (feminism, psychoanalytic and cultural criticism, queer studies, etc.) within the framework of globalized literary studies, in which the importance of Spanish culture as an object of study has also been reduced by the growing preeminence of Latin American culture, in particular by the Latinization of the United States (Avelar 1999; Gies 2001, 503; Irwin & Szurmuk 2002, 49). It was a wager that Paul Julian Smith (1988) quickly took up in his first book, published in English in 1988 and translated into Spanish by the prestigious publisher Castalia in 1995. In it, Smith defends the pioneering nature of his study of Golden Age Spanish literature (Quevedo, Gracián, Herrera, Góngora, Garcilaso, the picaresque novel, Lope’s comedy, Cervantes…), which involved a new examination of the Spanish literary canon from the standpoint of Jacques Derrida’s theories on linguistic excess and Jacques Lacan’s marginal identity. The book was received, we may say, with suspicion from various sectors of Spanish philology (Rivers 1993a), due to its deconstructionist and iconoclastic air, which extolled the idea of a text as nothing but an infinitely expanding game, a project that Smith would complete in two subsequent books (1989 & 1992). The volume coordinated by Mark L. Millington and Smith insisted on this desire to subvert Spanish literary studies, confronting various canonical texts (Lazarillo de Tormes, La vida es sueño [Life is a dream], Los pazos de Ulloa [The son of a bondwoman]…) in a series of rereadings that attempted to establish new areas of study, at the same time as “to reflect the increasing concern with gender, class, sexuality, and nationality” (1994, 7). And the volume coordinated by Emilie L. Bergmann and P. J. Smith (1995, 2) was presented as a response to the research interests emerging in English-language universities, which included the problem of the canon and the rereading of authoritative authors who are frequently the object of uncritical obeisance; the question of history and the retrieval of subject positions and identities throughout a multiplicity of Spanish-speaking cultures and countries; the related theme of ethnicity, and its implications for a Spain composed of autonomous regions and a Spanish America in which national identity has always been the object of debate and has never been assumed, simply, to exist; the problem of biography and the attempt to rewrite a personal history while paying proper respect to the desire of writers (especially lesbian writers) to protect themselves from the dubious benefits of visibility; the questions of the queer reader and her/his own implication in the text that is read; and finally, the relation between theory and practice, and a call to action by those of us whose work within the academy has sometimes brought us into conflict with the demands of activists.

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Hence, as we can see in Josiah Blackmore and Gregory S. Hutchenson’s book, in the wake of the volume coordinated by Bergmann and Smith, a new field linked to gender and sexuality and approaching queer studies opened up, introduced as “a response to the need for a more systematic examination of premodern and early-modern expressions of sexuality within the context of the growing collaboration between Iberian studies and modern critical theory” (Hutchenson & Blackmore 1999, 5). But we can add more examples of the sort, such as Lisa Vollendorf (2001), Catherine Davies (1998), Janet Perez and Maureen Ihrie (2002), and Christine Henseler (2003). See also Sylvia Molloy and Robert McKee Irwin’s (1998) contribution, which collected fourteen essays that offered a queer reading of Spanish and Latin American literatures and cultures with the clear intention, obvious in the volume’s very title, to widen the panorama of contemporary Hispanism, and Gema Pérez-Sánchez’s (2007), who analyzed the work of gay and lesbian authors (Ana María Moix, Eduardo Mendicutti, and Cristina Perri Rossi, among others), but also paid attention to the manifestations of “low culture” (see the analysis of comics such as La Víbora [The snake]). James Mandrell has spoken of “the creation of a space suitable for a specific reading, openly oriented toward a gay and lesbian perspective [and] the interpretation of specifically gay and/or lesbian texts” (1999, 211), in such a way that “gay and lesbian studies show a conscience, a modern political, social and cultural identity, even a particular culture” (214; see Gies 2001, 504–05). P. J. Smith’s pieces followed one another and reliably carried out a program of broadening the Spanish literary-cultural field. In The moderns, he recognizes the emergence of a new disciplinary space, demarcating it with precision: Contemporary Spanish culture is a uniquely rich and varied field. Yet Spanish Cultural Studies is still in its infancy. […] The aim of this book is thus twofold: to change the object of contemporary Hispanism, by incorporating new media, such as photography, town planning, and popular music; and to analyse the new object by engaging for the first time with (mainly French) cultural theory on such themes as (post)modernity, urbanization, and everyday life. (2000, 1)

In Contemporary Spanish culture, he extended the study of creators and genres (Francisco Umbral, Víctor Erice, La Cubana, Álvaro Pombo, Savater, Bigas Luna, Juan Goytisolo, Antonio López, Julio Médem, Alberto Cardín, and the musical genre of flamenco) to the plurinational sphere and to cultural phenomena with more influence in daily life, such as fashion retail companies (Zara) or fashion designers (Adolfo Domínguez), insisting once again on the aim of epistemological renewal: “This book, then, initiates a venture, or adventure, into new objects of study, new fields” (2003, 2). In his most recent works, Smith (2006a, 2006b, & 2009) focuses on film and television studies, a particularly relevant field in recent years, as evidenced by, to mention just a few cases, the work of Marsha Kinder (1993) and Cristina Moreiras (2002) on cinema as a practice of resistance to high culture and official historiographical narratives, to the point of postulating the existence of Spanish film studies (A. Davies 2011) with their very own journal (Studies in Hispanic cinema). On the links between Hispanism and film studies, there is also the volume coordinated by Javier Herrera and Cristina Martínez-Carazo (2007), in which, as the editors indicate in their introduction, the interdisciplinary opening due to English-language cultural studies is acknowledged. Smith’s work has helped lay down a disciplinary project that claims to be profoundly transformative, but he has not achieved this working alone. Other British Hispanists have followed closely the debates in the literary (or cultural) field, with special attention to the methodological

Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies443 approaches derived from deconstructionism and cultural studies (Jordan 1990; Sieburth, 1994; Deacon 2001). In 1995, the volume Spanish cultural studies: An introduction, edited by Helen Graham and Jo Labanyi, came out, signifying for many, due to its iconoclastic nature, the real starting point of Spanish cultural studies as a discipline: “Spanish Cultural Studies are in their infancy” (Graham & Labanyi 1995, v), the prologue declared, announcing that the volume claimed to fill the gap of an interdisciplinary approach in the Spanish field. The fifty or so articles collected in this volume address, in a deliberately fragmented way, the idea of a Spanish culture “as a complex network of processes and relations crossing the institutionalized boundary between ‘high’ and ‘low’ cultural forms” (1995, vi), through the problematization of selected cultural issues. Particularly noteworthy among them for their novelty and pertinence are those related to the progressive integration of Spain, since the 1960s, into mass culture and consumer capitalism, in a line of investigation later ratified by the work of Antonio Sánchez (2007) on the period 1980–90; or, more recently, by Tatjana Pavlovic’s (2011) study on the renewal of Spanish culture in the period 1954–64. In a way, this anthology changed the direction of English-language Hispanism when it abandoned “the past predominance of text-only criticism” (Harrington 1996, 182) and proposed an approach to Spanish culture, especially that of the post-Franco era, based on the ideas of heterogeneity and hybridization, from an interdisciplinary perspective that did not shy away from the political study of the different contemporary Spanish identities or the recognition of the plurinational reality of Spain, nor from paying attention to gender- and sexuality-based approaches and to subcultural phenomena active in Spanish society. Other volumes followed in the same sphere, recognizable as a concrete epistemological framework (D. J. Anderson 1996; A. Moreiras 1996), such as that of David T. Gies, The Cambridge companion to modern Spanish culture (1999), which collected 23 essays whose uniqueness lay in the fact that they paid more attention to literary genres and to the workings of different arts in Spain. There was also Barry Jordan and Rikki Morgan-Tamosunas’s Contemporary Spanish cultural studies, which offered a rewriting of Spanish culture in cultural criticism mode, through 28 essays devoted to case studies on topics such as race, nationalism and identity, media (regulation, markets, publics), gender and sex, religion, sports, and consumption, from very similar theoretical parameters: “Spanish Cultural Studies constitutes an exciting and newly emerging area, which is still establishing itself as a field of academic enquiry and as a set of teaching and learning practices” (Jordan & Morgan-Tamosunas 2000, 1). Bearing the known theoretical stamp of postmodern delegitimization of established knowledge, it was defined by “a profound interest in identities and their construction, particularly the ways in which various forms of discourse (including those of class, race, ethnicity, sexuality, gender, nation, etc.) traverse and inflect their formation and affect their transmission” (5). The Routledge encyclopedia of contemporary Spanish culture, edited by Eamonn Rodgers and an editorial team in 1999, expressed the desire to offer a reference work to English-speaking students interested in but not well versed in Spanish culture. And in the 2002 volume coordinated by Labanyi, Constructing identity in contemporary Spain: Theoretical debates and cultural practice, the key elements laid out nearly a decade earlier are revisited: in particular, in a memorable first chapter, the tensions between popular culture and mass culture from perspectives indebted to the sociology of Pierre Bourdieu; the understanding of culture “as a ‘recycling’ process in which nothing is lost but returns in new hybridized forms, adapting to changed circumstances” (Labanyi 2002, 5); and the peripheral condition of non-state national

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identities. In her most recent work, Labanyi (2010) proposes a history of Spanish literature that seems new and daring, as it pays attention to the multilingual situation, to problems of gender and sexuality, to media interdisciplinarity and to the notion of cultural heritage. In 2000, Labanyi was among the founding editors of the Journal of Spanish cultural studies and as a result, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, Spanish cultural studies were at the pinnacle of a rapid process of gaining institutional visibility in Spanish humanities scholarship. Its editorial line still attempts to question established notions of Spanish culture and Hispanism through theoretically and critically innovative work. We must also highlight the work of the Arizona journal of Hispanic cultural studies, which started up in 1997 and is now approaching twenty volumes. New paths were open and pointed toward a new order of knowledge, with traits such as the rejection of the division between high and low literature, “serious” and popular literature; approaching other media in their theoretical and historic complexity; the comparatist method, capable of taking on the discoveries of other disciplines, like cultural history and anthropology, and of other artistic practices. Hence, scholars abandoned the conception of Hispanism as a single, monological organic principle that governed the study of Spanish language and literature, and replaced it with a disciplinary practice “in a constant state of flux, less a community of established texts and methods than an aggregate of wholly disparate elements in which innovation, transgression (or even a reluctant tweaking of tradition), must somehow concur in the pursuit of new packaging for disciplines and schools” (De la Campa 2005, 300). In Portugal (M. M. Baptista 2009), the situation has not been much different than that which I have outlined for Spain, since cultural studies have encountered the same resistance in universities in the Peninsula and, with a small number of exceptions (for example, that of Álvaro Pina 2000 & 2003), their integration has been driven by English-language Lusism. In the spring of 2000, the international conference on “Portuguese cultural studies” was held at the Institute of Romance Studies in London, directed by Paulo de Medeiros; a conference whose results were published one year later in the Luso-Brazilian review (P. de Medeiros 2002). In that forum, Hilary Owen underlined the need to rekindle the debate about “the anti-canonical questions of margin and center, high and low, elite and popular culture” (2002, 8). P. de Medeiros has been very active in that area, opening a line of research linked to postcolonial and identity studies, and he is the editor of the collection “Reconfiguring identities in the Portuguese-speaking world” (with Cláudia Pazos-Alonso) for Peter Lang (2011-). In the case of Portugal, the drive has also come from outside the country, as demonstrated by the aforementioned authors as well as by Fernando Arenas’s work (2002 & 2003) on the representation of sexuality in interaction with the concept of nationhood, through the Lusophone world in literary and historical texts, in popular culture, or in dance. More recently, Sofia Sampaio (2013, 74) has spoken of “a fast academic expansion” of Portuguese cultural studies, summed up in the appearance in 2010 of academic programs and degrees, like the joint program of the Universities of Aveiro and Minho (two young state universities located in the north), the first doctoral program in cultural studies in Portugal, and the program offered by a private institution, the Faculty of Human Sciences of the Portuguese Catholic University, based in Lisbon. Both combine humanities with communication studies from an interdisciplinary perspective that distances them from traditional doctoral programs, which are almost exclusively literary. Portuguese cultural studies have lent their name to an electronic journal directed by P. de Medeiros and José Ornelas since 1996. Studies on the relations between literature and cinema has experienced a significant growth (M. do R. L. L. Bello 2005 & Oliveira 2007).

Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies445 For Galician literary studies, the disciplinary impact of cultural studies has been slower and less intense, but there are some noteworthy scholars who are forging paths in that direction. In successive works, Kirsty Hooper (2006a, 2009, 2011 & 2012) has investigated the possibilities for new theoretical paradigms, sometimes not without a certain polemic, as when she applied the Habermasian term “postnational” to Galician literature, in a line of scholarship that follows Resina’s earlier works. In any case, the point is to criticize the nationalism of the Spanish state, to (re)theorize the diverse Iberian discourses of nation, and to rethink the role of categories like gender, social class, race, sexuality and citizenship with the aim of confronting alternative strategies for the articulation of new individual and political identities. Following José F. Colmeiro (2009), Hooper advocates a decentralizing practice that, overcoming the imperialism of literary or philological studies, would also consider audiovisual media (film, music, television, and visual arts), characterized not only by their multilingualism but also by their textual resistance. Hooper’s contribution, especially in volumes like the special issue of the Bulletin of Hispanic studies, Critical approaches to the nation in Galician Studies (2009), co-edited with Helena Miguélez-Carballeira, and Contemporary Galician cultural studies: Between the local and the global, co-edited with Manuel Puga Moruxa (2011), has meant the incorporation of Galician literary studies into the new spheres of critical theory, such as feminist or postcolonial criticism. Writing Galicia into the world (2012), her most recent book, continues this transformative project, which the International Association of Galician Studies and a journal like Galicia 21, coedited annually by Helena Miguélez-Carballeira and Craig Patterson (2009, 1–2), have also made their own: Amongst the chief objectives of the journal is the wish to create a dedicated and original forum that coheres with the scholarly interests and socio-political concerns of a new millennium, and which gives visibility to a new generation of critics who approach the field from a variety of critical perspectives (feminist theory and gender studies, postcolonial and postnational theories, globalization studies, etc.) that have not been previously utilised and which stand in contrast with the marked structuralist and socio-historic approach of traditional philological studies in Galicia.

In other Peninsular areas, the specific contributions are scarcer, for example, the three volumes of Basque cultural studies (Douglass et al. 1999), resulting from an international symposium held one year earlier at the University of Nevada (Reno), on questions such as migration, identity, and globalization. As we have seen, cultural studies have tackled the revalorization of the subject, the rehabilitation of the pleasures linked to media consumption, the central role of social class, gender, and ethnic identities as a factor explaining Peninsular cultural processes (Mattelart & Neveu 2004, 17–18). The relative increase in magazines, books, and textbooks in the English-speaking world has established a good dose of hybrid knowledge that has put into play an “antidiscipline” with an increasingly heterogeneous network of theoretical references. The “big bang” effects have been considerable in the English-speaking sphere, though surely much less in the Spanish-speaking sphere. As we have seen, from the beginning of Spanish cultural studies, there has been a certain tendency to establish a dichotomy between American and Peninsular literary studies (Del Pino & La Rubia Prado 1999). In the spring of 1995, at New York University, a seminar called “Future directions for the study of Modern Spanish literature” took place, of which we have a record in

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issue 139 of the journal Quimera. As we have seen, in Spain positivist and would-be scientific philological and monocultural methods would persist, along with conservative and authoritarian positions established in the dogmatic conception of the text as something coherent and solid which could be accessed through the “immediate perception of that which can be intuited” (Beltrán 1995, 48), while in the United States, scholars approached critical activity with more critical and discursive plurality. Academic structures supported this distinction: doubtless, the Spanish academy still has traces of rigidity, autarchy, and inbreeding, and in it there is a constant resistance to deconstructionist or feminist thought (Loureiro 1995, 33). The American academy shows itself to be constantly seeking novelty (that of “an always new, final American frontier”; Loureiro 1995, 34), generating centrifugal force that has to do with the multicultural society in which it exists. In the words of Luis Fernández Cifuentes (1995, 37), the Spanish system of textual analysis, which goes back to the methods of Fernando Lázaro Carreter and Domingo Ynduráin, insists on seeking certainty and closure (a happy ending), that of achieving the original meaning of the text, while the American school, with its deconstructionist roots, brings into play hermeneutical doubt or the idea of failure, and feels comfortable in the most productive spaces of ambiguity and illegibility in which Maurice Blanchot and Jacques Derrida circulated so successfully. English-language neo-Hispanist currents, assisted by the emergence of cultural studies, have helped things to get moving in Spain as well, in such a way that Peninsular Hispanism has also been affected by the deployment of new theoretical orientations and by the rejection of dominant master narratives (Martín-Estudillo & Spadaccini 2010a, xi). The recognition of the diverse literary traditions of Iberia as situated on the same hierarchical level, as interacting entities, which contributed to a certain emergence of Peninsular comparatism (Bou 2010), revealed a multicultural and multilinguistic reality that had to be studied. But there was also the need to study mass culture, as Stephanie Sieburth (1999, 13–14) pointed out: Until relatively recently, modern Peninsular Hispanism, like all literary studies influenced by the New Criticism, used the narrow frame of “the general body of the arts” as a field of study. Of course, critics related literature to the political events of the day, but in relatively broad strokes […]. In the last twenty years, the new focus on mass cultural forms such as serial novels, radio songs, television programs, movies, and the like has led scholars to ask radically new questions of the literary works they had been studying all along, as well as leading them to new objects of study.

But maybe the opposition between, on the one hand, a radical American cultural studies, as an open and plural field, and, on the other, the strictly philological traditions of literary Peninsular studies is reductionist, for it ignores the actual contribution of a relevant number of theoreticians working in/on the Peninsula who have been beting for a semiotic or post-structuralist perspective, practicing cultural studies even without using that label. This dual assesment must be reconsidered due to the recent renovation of disciplinary models and the progressive emergence of new researchers attentive to these questions into the Spanish university system. Yet in this landscape, it would be unfair not to recognize, albeit briefly, the importance of French Hispanism, which was always interested in tracing the cultural history of twentieth-century Spain. In this area, as Jean-François Botrel and Jacques Maurice (2000, 41) have indicated, a collective work was particularly important: 1900 en Espagne, published in France in the late 1980s (Bordeaux 1988) and later in Madrid, coordinated by Serge Salaün and Carlos Serrano (1991), and comprising the work of twelve contributors. The volume constituted a sort of compendium

Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies447 of the lines of investigation present in French universities, from a notable plurality of approaches that associated political history and urban history, the study of intellectual and literary life and its conditions and production and dissemination, the analysis of educational policy and the investigation of artistic and theatrical life, in an attempt to determine as rigorously as possible the respective weight of tradition and innovation at the dawn of the twentieth century, using an approach to some degree indebted to the Spanish school of historian Manuel Tuñón de Lara. This spirit became institutionalized in France in the work of the research group created by Salaün, the CREC (Centre de Recherches sur l’Espagne Contemporaine, Université de Paris III), whose seminars and publications continue the efforts to outline a cultural history of twentieth-century Spain (Salaün & Etienvre 2009). In the Spanish academy, there are also similar examples. I will highlight among them Teresa M. Vilarós’s contribution (1998); and Jordi Gracia and Miguel Ángel Ruiz Carnicer’s (2004), which deal with the collective lifestyles in Francoist Spain starting from the opposition between official culture and resistance or protest culture, and its media presence (of particular interest are their reflections on the so-called “aesthetics of fear,” the “sentimental imaginary” and the doctrinaire teaching of the State). There has even been a continuation of this project in the book coordinated by Francisco Rico, Jordi Gracia and Antonio Bonet (2009). In Spain, more strictly speaking, cultural studies entered mainly through English departments, but always timidly and to a limited degree, without creating much jubilation, but also without threatening the study of literary texts belonging to so-called “high literature,” with a few notable exceptions, such as Antonio Méndez Rubio’s book (1997), an excellent Gramscian review of the participative and subversive elements of popular culture (opposite the more domesticated mass culture), and David Viñas’s El enigma best-seller (The best-seller enigma, 2009), in which he analyzes the workings of this phenomenon in the international literary sphere, based on an ample corpus (Stephen King, Umberto Eco, Noah Gordon, Paulo Coelho, Ken Follett, Arturo Pérez-Reverte, J. K. Rowling, Carlos Ruiz Zafón, Javier Cercas, Dan Brown and Stieg Larsson, among other authors). Gender studies have also yielded very interesting contributions, such as the Breve historia feminista de la literatura española (en lengua castellana) (Brief feminist history of Spanish literature [in Spanish]), coordinated by Myriam Díaz-Diocaretz and Iris M. Zavala (1993). Also noteworthy are the attempts at epistemological renewal carried out by authors such as Giulia Colaizzi (1990), Neus Carbonell and Meri Torras (1999), Beatriz Suárez Briones (2000), Meri Torras (2006 & 2007) and Isabel Navas Ocaña (2009). Smaller in number are scholarly works devoted to postcolonial studies, among which I highlight the recent contribution of Natalia Álvarez Méndez (2010), in which she analyzes literary works from Equatorial Guinea, published in the twentieth century and immersed in the tension between processes of colonization and decolonization. Film adaptation studies have been particularly successful in Spain, appearing frequently in print and at conferences and yielding interesting results, such as the work of researchers like Antonio Monegal (1998), Carmen Peña Ardid (1999 & 2010), Luis Miguel Fernández (2000 & 2004), Carmen Becerra (2001), José Antonio Pérez Bowie (2004 & 2013) and Darío Villanueva (2008). But among all the new approaches to literature understood as an expanded field, in the Spanish academy, one stands out: the study of interactive and hypertextual literature, comprised of electronic texts that show new creative processes. In fact, studies on cyberliterature carried out in Spain demonstrate the emergence of the so-called “New Humanities,” which establishes a

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multidisciplinary and, therefore, comparative intermedia dimension, which is of great interest to scholars attracted by a more polyvalent, flexible approach, with an intellectual and disciplinary horizon less restrictive than the current one. Today it is even possible to contextualize Spanish fiction’s new channels in the mediatization and digitalization of culture, which involves interdisciplinary crossovers, hybrid networks that establish continuous connections between traditional forms and electronic media. Digital technology has not only changed the way in which narrative is being written and received, but also, it has modified our perception of reality and of the world. While the word text was key to the understanding and development of postmodern thought, now others have emerged, such as (post)code or texture, and new lines of investigation have been added, such as the study of the aesthetics of error (excessive use of repetitions, loops, and autocorrection of the text). In the same way, scholars have theorized a great deal about the creation of database narratives like collections of individual items through which the reader navigates. The inclusion of disorganized lists or of incoherent name-dropping is frequent in these works, like in that of the majority of the authors called Mutantes (to use the term proposed in Julio Ortega and Juan Francisco Ferré’s anthology): Eloy Fernández Porta, Javier Calvo, Vicente Luis Mora, Agustín Fernández Mallo, Javier Moreno, Manuel Vilas, Germán Sierra, and Ferré himself. Many of these authors are also essay-writers, and in many cases their professional background is in disciplines far removed from literature, closer to the so-called hard sciences, for which reason it is not difficult to locate traces of theories such as chaos theory or quantum physics in their work, theories that have shaped scientific development in the twentieth century. In this area, the recent contributions of Agustín Fernández Mallo (2009) and Vicente Luis Mora are key: their volume El lectoespectador (The readerspectator) analyzes the new environment of literary creativity, such as Google, Twitter, digital television, and a type of literature decidedly focused on inter- and trans-media. In this area, we find institutions that have greatly dynamized the study of the production of a new kind of literature, such as SELITEN@T, Centro de Investigación de Semiótica Literaria, Teatral y Nuevas Tecnologías (Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia), led by José Romera Castillo, among whose objectives is to establish in the Spanish sphere an interdisciplinary perspective based in the relationship between literature and other methods of communication (radio, television, film, and new media). There are also specific platforms for the analysis of digital production, such as the Hermeneia Group (hermeneia.net), coordinated by Laura Borràs, with the participation of other theorists like Eugenio Tisselli and Domingo Sánchez-Mesa. A highlight among their areas of research, for literary theory, is the study of the phenomenon of migration between formats, the differences between born-digital literature (created directly for electronic media) and digitized (that is to say, print literature, later adapted to a digital format), the new forms of reading that emerge in the digital environment, and, in general, the critical analysis of the products of e-literature. The Hermeneia Group has already published notable offerings, such as Textualidades electrónicas (Electronic textualities, 2005), by the group’s initiator, Laura Borràs. Amelia Sanz Cabrerizo and Dolores Romero López are the creators of the LEETHI group (Literaturas Españolas del Texto al Hipertexto, Universidad Complutense de Madrid: ), which, according to its webpage has been studying, since the year 2000, “the breakdown of national frameworks as a model for a single identity and the transformation of reading and literary writing through new electronic formats.” Literary theory has provided other important contributions, such as the work of María José Vega (2003), Virgilo

Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies449 Tortosa Garrigós (2008), and Susana Pajares Tosca (2004 & 2008), but we must not forget that electronic products can be approached from complementary perspectives, such as from audiovisual studies. In that area, some particularly noteworthy publications are Carlos A. Scolari’s (2008 & 2013), which deal with the concept of “hypermediation” to explain the new television narrative and deal with the emerging concept of transmedia narrative. There is a growing interest in studying the corpus of electronic literature in Spain, which is currently lacking. The Le.es group (Literatura Electrónica en España, Universidade de Santiago de Compostela), whose members include, among others, Darío Villanueva Prieto, María Teresa Vilariño Picos, and Anxo Abuín González (these last two edited the volume Teoría del hipertexto. La literatura en la era electrónica [Hypertext theory. Literature in the electronic age] in 2006), has been carrying out a cataloguing project (). There are also groups interested in cataloguing experimental literature written in all of the Peninsular languages. For example, there is the PEC 1970–1990 project (Poesía experimental catalana: ) by the LICETC research group (), located in the Balearic islands, which combines historiography with literary criticism, comparatism, and cultural studies. Among its members are Enric Bou, Dominic Keown, and Mercè Picornell. In Galicia, we find the ALEA poetic analysis group (GAAP) (), coordinated by Arturo Casas and oriented towards Galician poetic output, especially that of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, with a concept of output that is neither restrictive nor text-bound. Without forgetting Pedro Barbosa’s pioneering work (1996) in Portugal, a special mention should go to the group led by Rui Torres (2008) from the Universidade de Fernando Pessoa in Porto, who himself is a multimedia creator and director of the journal Cibertextualidades. Torres directs the project called Po.Ex ‘70–80’ (), as a continuation of the former PO.ex CD-Rom (Experimental Portuguese poetry), which carried out studies on Portuguese literary experimentalism of the 1970s and which created its own digital archive with the main periodicals, catalogs, and publications of those years, which has now been expanded to include works of visual and spoken word poetry, video poetry, happening, and cybernetic literature. In reality, through its constant rebirth, cultural studies, almost like a “travelling concept” (Bal 2002, Neumann & Nunning 2012), have contributed to rekindling the debate on new literary identities at the beginning of the century, allowing researchers a common language, though not a very explicit one. Its effectiveness has varied with different periods, methods, and traditions, but there is no doubt that this theoretical framework (in an exercise of “disciplinary traffic,” as Mieke Bal would say) has helped to problematize a reality that in the past had been taken as too uniform, and to value and organize certain phenomena that otherwise would have remained in total obscurity. The compilation that we offer in this section, titled “Popular culture and literary repertoires,” hopes to contribute to this debate, which we have framed with reference to Spanish cultural studies, from the analysis of a new media landscape that has been getting richer in the Peninsula in recent decades. We acknowledge that the analysis of contemporary culture, due to its profoundly mediated nature, obliges us to draw a not nearly exhaustive map of arts, media, and disciplines that include film, television, radio, music, comics, theater, new media, and, of course, literature, which here is focused particularly on popular genres. Literature is a medium that shares “intermedia” traits with other media, that can transpose itself to other media, that borrows materials and techniques from other media, that combines with other media, and that speaks of them and takes part in continuous processes of remediation (Wolf 2011). But this reality

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also makes it essential to deal with the idea of “mediality,” paying attention as well to the specificity of the media of communication in question from a formal and an institutional perspective. In general, we have understood that media culture helps to outline the landscape of daily life, providing materials for sketching out identities, feelings of class, ethnicity and race, nationality, and gender; it creates new social models for individuals (Kellner 1995). This section moves from strictly literary topics to others related to the idea of mediality, from a historic and institutional perspective. In “Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–90,” Santiago Díaz Lage analyzes some aspects of the rise of the novel in the Iberian Peninsula during the nineteenth century. The starting point is the idea that the novel played a central role in the historical schism betweeen high and mass culture and that the textual nature of what are now regarded as paraliterary (i.e., non-artistic) novels shows the ideological and aesthetic tensions underlying that process. On the period between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, but in the same sphere of opposition between “high” and “low” culture, Serge Salaün confirms, somewhat aggressively, the poor quality of scholarly work on the great heritage of popular theater in Spain, no doubt due to its comic or frivolous content (like the sainete, often transmitted with musical accompaniment, as in the case of the zarzuela), compared to the seriousness of canonical authors. Salaün refers to the notion of “laughter” as a cultural mechanism actively rejected by the dominant classes, which preferred to put their imagination “into the dreamy universes of irises and swans.” Two essays offer a more contemporary perspective. David Viñas approaches the study of the bestseller phenomenon from complementary angles. First, he endeavors to present the bestseller as a literary genre in harmony with an analogous generic logic, which is basically a phenomenon related to reading, rather than one that follows the traditional parameters of a generic logic that merely classifies. Second, Viñas argues that a sociological study is required in order to analyze the inner logic of the literary field and to determine the space that the bestseller occupies within that field. In exploring this topic, he turns to the views of both literary critics and bestselling authors — particularly within the framework of the Iberian Peninsula — paying special attention to possible controversies which, the anecdotal aside, can clearly illustrate the dynamic workings of the literary field and allow one to see how bestsellers are received. Additionally, this sociological study is backed up by multiple references to mass culture — the natural habitat of the bestseller — and looks at the study of collective psychology, which coherently explains the behavior of a large number of readers, which in turn leads to a certain kind of book getting on the bestseller list. From an even more recent perspective, writer and neurology professor Germán Sierra studies how digital technology has been changing the ways in which new narratives are being produced, transmitted, and received, meaning a total reconsideration of the very idea of the representation of reality. Sierra introduces the concept of “postdigital” to refer to a literature that involves “the written account of the navigation through this continuous, contingent, digitally-processed, and biologically re-processed hyper-reality.” The next two articles offer a view that is closer to the interartistic or intermedial. In “The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature: Some examples from the Iberian Peninsula,” Joan-Elies Adell analyzes, within the framework of cultural studies, an example symptomatic of the problematic relationship between literature and music: the nueva canción (New song) which appeared in Spain starting in the 1970s, with special emphasis on the most emblematic case, the Nova Cançó (Catalan new song). Through popular song, a fruitful

Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies451 dialogue was established between music and literature, but some nationalist, anti-Franco movements also sprang up, which demanded political, linguistic, and literary resurrection, using the poetry of some of the most engaged writers of the time. In her article, María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar approaches hip-hop music from a generic perspective, with many examples from Spain and Portugal. Musicology has coined the term “compensatory history” to refer to the need to recognize women’s contributions to the musical sphere, opposite the usual excusively male and heterocentric canon. In their lyrics, female hip-hop singers demonstrate extreme gender and class consciousness that is a clear defining trait. The next group of articles presents a dimension that slips from the literary into spheres where mediality is much more explicit. José Antonio Pérez Bowie and Fernando González García deal with the relationship between the literary and film canons through an exploration of the more traditional film genres: melodrama, high comedy, and comedy of manners. They pay special attention to the presence of a “culturalist, literature-based cinema,” a type of film adaptation of literary texts that is especially promoted at particular times of heavy cultural planning, for example, in the case of Spain, during the PSOE (Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party)’s mandate. In “Television and transmediality in the Iberian Peninsula,” Concepción Cascajosa traces the history of television in Spain and Portugal based on its presumed interaction with literature and politics. The arrival of new digital formats has led to the creation of new transmedia content that enables the participation of the viewer, often through social networks, and the parallel development of complementary content that challenges traditional TV viewing. In her piece, Virginia Guarinos studies the relationships between literature and radio playwriting in Spain and Portugal. The history of radio has gone through many stages, related to structure, content, and amount of fiction in its programming. After a golden age at the beginning of the second half of the twentieth century, fiction appears less and, at the same time, different formats begin to appear and replace older ones, as radio responds to the abundance of fiction in other competing media, particularly television. The tech revolution at the end of the century and the beginning of the 2.0 era finish off this dwindling medium to the point that we can no longer speak of “radio fiction” but of “audio fiction.” Lastly, Ana Merino, a specialist in the graphic novel, focuses on two key figures of Spanish comics: the Catalan Max (Francesc Capdevila i Gisbert) and the Galician Miguelanxo Prado, two artists whose work best represents the “transitions” of Spanish comics toward the so-called “graphic novel” within the formative context of the Spanish political transition and its cultural consequences. Her essay analyzes the different facets that have led these two internationally known authors to create “graphic novels” that are emblematic within the history of Spanish comics. Prado, who was self-taught and very isolated from the major schools, published his acclaimed Trazo de tiza (Streak of chalk) in 1992, and Max, the classic referent of the underground Spanish comic, gave us El prolongado sueño del Sr. T. (The extended dream of Mr. T., 1997): both offer a sequential way of narrating very complex stories, with multidimensional characters that distance themselves from stories of heroes or losers. Lastly, we must give special mention to María Jesús Fariña Busto and Beatriz Suárez Briones’s article on women, gender and queer studies in the Iberian Peninsula, a topic that would without doubt be worthy of its own section in this volume. Fariña and Briones develop with precision the process of (social and, especially, scholarly) institutionalization of these discursive practices, identifying their main agents in Spain and Portugal and their main contributions to the literature.

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890 Santiago Díaz Lage Such works leave the realm of literature and enter the darker, and more lucrative one, of industry. Once art turns into craft, it is only a matter of a lot of paper and a lot of ink. (Palacio Valdés 1964, 1188)

Research on what are diversely called para-, infra- or subliterary novels, popular novels, people’s novels, or mass novels usually starts by admitting a defeat: the choice of any of these names implies a stance towards an allegedly single and univocal object of analysis. The truth is that the disparity of names corresponds to a complex disparity of historical phenomena that perhaps cannot be reduced to a single definition; and that each possible option has, as Richard Ohmann (1996, 11–47) has shown, serious limitations. Many of the possible denominations attempt to resolve the historical strains of the split between high and mass culture by means of static dichotomies. When we talk about “masses,” we underplay the complexity of ways of life that makes for a historical community, and when we talk about “the people,” we adopt, uncritically, one of the pivotal points of bourgeois ideology, often with an essentialist slant (Gramsci 2001, 2279–94). There is therefore little difference between concluding that paraliterature is actually “not as good” as the literature we accept and perpetuate as such, and concluding that literature may and must be infinitely widened, up to the point that it includes realities and phenomena that heretofore have been excluded from it. The problem is not to generously include within the concept of literature the expression of objectified popular cultures, but to question the historical origin of these concepts, the ideological mechanisms that sustain them, and the social positions from which they are supported and reproduced: The purity of bourgeois art, which hypostasized itself as a world of freedom in contrast to what was happening in the material world, was from the beginning bought with the exclusion of the lower classes — with whose cause, the real universality, art keeps faith precisely by its freedom from the ends of the false universality. Serious art has been withheld from those for whom the hardship and oppression of life make a mockery of seriousness, and who must be glad if they can use time not spent at the production line just to keep going. Light art has been the shadow of autonomous art. It is the social bad conscience of serious art. The truth which the latter necessarily lacked because of its social premises gives the other the semblance of legitimacy. The division itself is the truth: it does at least express the negativity of the culture which the different spheres constitute. Least of all can the antithesis be reconciled by absorbing light art into serious art, or vice versa. But that is what the culture industry attempts. (Adorno & Horkheimer 1999, 135)

Diverting Adorno and Horkheimer’s quote, one may say that the purity of the bourgeois novel was achieved at the price of excluding “a shattered mob that contrives a thousand artifices so as to hide its own sadness” (Pérez Galdós 2004b, 109) or “the vile populace that lurked in the shadows” (Chagas n.d., 197). The history of the bourgeois novel is the history of that conflict, of the schism that I will try to map out in this chapter.1 1.

Translation by José Díaz Lage. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.37dia © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890453 Abstract considerations of the culture industry have obliterated the fact that serialized culture was a crucial element in the historical constitution of a social community, in the definition of the culture to which this community could aspire, and in the articulation of its relationship to hegemonic culture. This may be the reason why collections of serialized works published mainly historical novels, social novels, and innumerable histories, dictionaries, encyclopedias, and geographies, often labelled as “popular” (Baulo 2004; Botrel 1974; Carrillo 1974, 1977; Mainer 1986). Besides the well-known El Panteón Universal: diccionario histórico de vidas interesantes, aventuras amorosas, sucesos trágicos, escenas románticas, lances jocosos, progresos científicos y literarios, acciones heroicas, virtudes populares, crímenes célebres y empresas gloriosas, de cuantos hombres y mujeres de todos los países, desde el principio del mundo hasta nuestros días, han bajado al sepulcro dejando un nombre inmortal,2 Wenceslao Ayguals de Izco’s Sociedad Literaria serialized a comprehensive handbook of general culture and useful knowledge in seventeen volumes, entitling it La Escuela del Pueblo: páginas de enseñanza universal, seguidas de una recopilación de las obras más selectas que se hayan escrito y escriban en todos los países para perfeccionar el entendimiento humano (The School of the People: Pages of universal education, followed by an anthology of the most select works that have been written in all countries with the aim of perfecting human understanding, 1852–53). The book soon became a referent for what was then called popular education. Between 1871 and 1886 Manuel Pinheiro Chagas published — in small, affordable volumes — his Dicionário popular, histórico, geográfico, mitológico, biográfico, artístico, bibliográfico e literário (Popular, historic, geographic, mythological, biographical, artistic, bibliographic, and literary dictionary), whose purpose was to follow the project started with his “Educação Popular” (Popular education) collection (1870-), which in turn may have been inspired by the “Livros para o povo” (Books for the people) that Teixeira de Vasconcelos had been publishing since 1859 (Torgal & Vargues 1993, 690–92). What is remarkable about this is that these works appeared in relatively autonomous installments and, unlike similar works published in Spain, they do not seem to have been sold by subscription (Benítez 1996, 677–78). In Lisbon, the Sociedade Propagadora de Conhecimentos Úteis (Society for the propagation of useful knowledge), established by Alexandre Herculano, had begun publishing in 1837 the journal O Panorama, which intended to render accessible to “the people,” in intellectual and economic terms, the knowledge hitherto restricted to those who could afford to purchase books and devote several hours a day to reading. The vehicle of choice is neither the serial nor the loose fascicle, but an illustrated journal that in its different sections contained, in nearly every issue, the diversity of “useful content” whose intention it was to spread. Many of Herculano’s own historical novels appeared in O Panorama: conceived as a popularizing complement to his academic work, they revealed the “chronicles of bitterness” that lurked behind “the isolated fragments that I found in the course of my research,” “little but loose, obscure phrases of the history for which I sought in vain”3 (see Simões 1967–72, 2:26–42). Although Herculano may not be considered a popular novelist, one of the points of coincidence in the setting of the works 2.

The universal pantheon: historical dictionary of interesting lives, amorous adventures, tragic events, romantic scenes, scientific and literary progress, heroic actions, popular virtues, famous crimes and glorious enterprises, of all men and women and from all countries, who from the start of the world to today, have gone to grave leaving behind them an immortal name.

3.

“Crónica de amarguras” / “Fragmentos avulsos que nas minhas indagaçoes encontrei” / “apenas frases soltas e obscuras da história que eu buscava debalde” (Herculano 1982, 30).

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of Manuel Fernández y González and Ramón Ortega y Frías is precisely the allusion to realities “that have had no relevance for the archeologist, but have been very important to the novelist.”4 Thus, it could be argued that the simultaneous popular success of historical narrative and narrative histories was not a minor or marginal tendency in the Iberian literatures of the nineteenth century, but a symptom that hegemonic culture tended to exclude those attempts to apprehend and narrate even the most recent history, or those who could undertake such attempts. Even the omnipresence of sentimental subplots may be read as an effort to locate in history, or rather, in the historical process of formation of human communities, the fabric of everyday life, represented in a manner that purports to be universal inasmuch as it is basic. La orfaneta de Menargues, o Catalunya agonisant (The orphan of Menargues, or Catalonia in agony, 1862), by Antoni de Bofarull i Brocá, obeys this logic from its very dedication by attempting to don the procedures, codes, and forms of the popular novel. It begins with the revelation that, according to the documents preserved in the Archive of the Crown of Aragon, the Compromise of Casp “far from being evidence of Catalunya’s abnegation and love of peace, was but a diplomatic intrigue.”5 From this point on, Bofarull develops a plot that does not differ much from other great stories of treason and betrayal such as Ortega y Frías’s Guzmán el Bueno (Guzman the good, 1856); but, as though this similarity ought to be given the lie, the novel ends with a “purely historical chapter” that warns that “until now, the Poet had spoken using History to give life to his thought: History alone must now speak, so as to confirm the zeal that he had had when it came to combine historical truth with the fruits of his imagination.”6 The epilogue is followed by a long appendix that reproduces many of the documents with which Bofarull, who was an officer at the General Archive of Aragon, could support his interpretation of the history of Catalunya. Remarkably, Ortega y Frías had only referred to “the Chronicles” (1859, 89) in order to convince his readers that when Alfonso X, hurt by Pelayo el Duro’s treason, said, “if the Lord would create the human race anew and listen to my observations, how much better off would the world be with its new population!,”7 the sky clouded over and lightning flashed. La orfaneta de Menargues was published in Barcelona by the printer Lluís Tasso, who, in 1858, signed the “Memorial of the novelists of Barcelona,” addressed to the Home Secretary, along with Bofarull himself, Francisco Orellana (the prolific historical novelist known as Ana Oller), and the publishers Inocente López Bernagosi and Salvador Manero, amongst others (see Romero Tobar 1976, 240–44). One of the measures demanded by the document was that novels could be submitted to government censorship in serial form, so that the possible bans or omissions would not affect the whole, finished, and composed novel, but a smaller unit, much easier to correct, or forsake (see Murguía 1998). It is not irrelevant that Antonio Altadill placed the dedication of 4.

“Que ninguna importancia han tenido para los arqueólogos, pero que son de mucha para el novelista” (Ortega y Frías 1929, 6).

5.

“Lluny de ser un testimoni de abnegació y del amor á la pau per part de Catalunya, era sols una intriga diplomática” (Bofarull i Brocá 1862, 8).

6.

“Lo Poeta havia parlat fins ara aprofitant la Historia pera dar vida á son pensament: convé que parle ara la Historia sola, pera confirmar lo zel que aquell haja tingut al combinar las veritats históricas ab los fruyts de la imaginació” (Bofarull i Brocá 1862, 541).

7.

“Si el Supremo volviese a crear la humana raza y atendiera mis observaciones, ¡cuánto ganaria el mundo con su nueva población!” (Ortega y Frías 1859, 89).

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890455 Barcelona y sus misterios (Barcelona and its mysteries, 1860–61) at the end of the book, saying: “this novel might have suffered the same fate as my Jerónimo, which was banned by Royal decree as soon as its first issue appeared; and this is why, although then as much as now I endeavored to write as befits the law, and even thought to be doing so, these lines are on the last, not on the first page of the book I dedicate to you.”8 Such is the extent of the importance and autonomy acquired by the serialized form. From the mid-1850s onwards, industrial concentration and the gradual centralization of the administrative apparatus were forming a new people, ever more proletarian, in the urban nuclei of the Iberian Peninsula, from Barcelona to Lisbon, from Madrid to Porto, and from Valencia to Bilbao. This is not yet, properly speaking, a working class, but a mixture of individuals and communities destined for the misery of the wage system; not a historical subject with a clear consciousness of its place in the world and its power to transform it, but, again, a heterogeneous crowd of individuals lacking what bourgeois ideology calls “social responsibility” or “a defined place in society.”9 This new condition brought, amongst other things, a relative availability over time, and it probably demanded of workers great mobility within cities in the search for money, work, or lodging. Two of the key elements for capitalist development and state consolidation in Spain and Portugal were the extension of the railway network from the capitals to the provinces and the works of suburban development of the great cities, after years of real-estate speculation, which withdrew working-class areas to what had previously been wastelands, and which suddenly cut off many workers from their families as they moved to the places where railway works demanded their presence (Bahamonde Magro & Toro Mérida 1978; Bahamonde Magro & Martínez 1998, 401–20; Barrio Alonso 1982, 29–97; Mendes 1993a, 355–367, 1993b, 493–496; Vaquinhas & Cascão 1993). In my opinion, this historical process constituted the “people” for whom the feuilleton and the culture of seriality are “popular”: the experience of the restructuration of cities, neighborhoods and districts, the common background of rootlessness and wandering, the street culture of small-talk and the conversation at counters and workshops may have generated a new sociability and new practices of reading and sharing knowledge (see Amores 2004; Baulo 2004, 9–10). It seems probable that the printed text of the issue or the feuilleton, the bibliographical material that is for us today dead letter, was but the starting point of a much wider oral diffusion which was only partially dependent on silent reading. According to official records, in 1860 there were nearly sixteen million people in Spain, of whom little over three million could read and write, whether they had the habit of reading or not. Already, the great majority of these lived in a city or provincial capital (Botrel 1993, 303–31). In 1878, the illiteracy rate in Portugal reached 82.4% (Torgal 1993, 618–19), and the great majority of the population who could read (whether they did or not) lived in an urban area, although it is difficult to estimate the literacy rates among the rural population (Vaquinhas 1993, 481–89). Bearing in mind the features of rural exodus and migration, which in the two countries was 8.

“Pudo suceder a esta la obra lo que a mi novela Jerónimo, que fue prohibida de Real orden apenas vió la luz la entrega primera, y he aquí por qué, a pesar de que entonces como ahora he procurado y aún creído escribir dentro de la ley, van estas líneas en la última página y no en la primera del libro que te dedico” (Altadill i Teixidó 1861, 2:531).

9.

“Responsabilidad social” / “carácter definido en la sociedad” (Martínez Pedrosa 1864, 85 & 113).

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already constant in 1845, it is likely that the increase of the reading public in provincial towns was quicker than indicated by official records, which always lag behind social reality. According to several witnesses, in Madrid and other cities there were dense networks for the exchange of chapbooks, and circulating libraries that catered for literate workers, who must have often read aloud for their co-workers or neighbors (Lorenzo 1974, 31–37; Morato 1925, 53–56 & 82). Institutions such as the Fomento de las Artes (Promotion of the arts) in Madrid, which also ran primary instruction courses, had libraries whose membership was relatively open: “how distant the ‘chapbook stories’ and the serialized novels!”10 wrote Juan José Morato, celebrating the cultural and intellectual amelioration achieved by workers attending the Fomento de las Artes and the “good theatre” (Morato 1925, 85). In rural areas, where subscribers, collectors, and readers of serialized novels must have been few, chapbooks and blind beggars’ ballads seem to have been most prevalent; these often presented abstracted versions of the same historical narratives, the same fictions, and the same events that fed the serial industry (Caro Baroja 1988, 317–30, 435–501; Marco 1977, 267–337, 501–614; Benítez 1996, 677–78; Botrel 1986, 2000). Towards 1860, as capitalist social relations were developing in the Portuguese countryside, Antero de Quental suggested, following the ideas of Cormenin, the establishment of a “Sistema das Bibliotecas Rurais Ambulantes” (System of travelling rural libraries), which would furnish rural populations with a large number of “little books on natural sciences, domestic medicine, religious books, books on agriculture, on general politics, on administration, history, geography and travel”11 (see Vaquinhas & Neto 1993, 328–37). It would be interesting to compare the idea of necessary knowledge underlying these proposed travelling libraries with that formed by the series’ of Wenceslao Ayguals de Izco or Manuel Pinheiro Chagas. Many critics have stressed that massively distributed historiography, historical novels, and paraliterary novels in general, despite their historical trivializations, their political contradictions, and their often reactionary content, did contribute to creating new reading habits (Botrel 1974, 2002). The quantitative aspect must have been important, because the reactionary and Catholic press did not take long to adopt the trend of the feuilleton, and thus cemented a powerful cultural front that was particularly important during the Republican Sexennium (see Hibbs-Lissorgues 1995, 2004). Already in 1858 the prolific María del Pilar Sinués de Marco seems to have signed an exclusive contract with the Catholic journal El Fénix, as Leonardo Romero Tobar (1976, 102) points out; in the decades to follow, her novels were frequently republished in affordable and popular series such as the “Biblioteca moral y recreativa” (Moral and recreational library). One of the most tenacious campaigns of the hegemonic classes was the multiplication of periodical publications specifically addressed to women. From the mid-century onward, these efficiently fulfilled their function as ideological naturalization of the patriarchal bourgeois regime: “the State is a family on a large scale,” said the press and the professionals of public morality (see Vaquinhas & Cascão 1993, 449–57). Magazines such as Ellas (Women), La Moda Elegante (The elegant fashion), La Moda Elegante Ilustrada (The illustrated elegany fashion), El Tocador (The powder room), and El Correo de las Damas (Ladies’ post) contributed, simultaneously, to the symbolization of domestic life and to the reduction of women’s public activity to the consumption 10.

“¡Cuán lejos quedaban las ‘historias de cuerda’ y los novelones por entregas!” (Morato 1925, 85).

11.

“De pequenos volumes sobre ciências naturais, medicina doméstica, livros de religião, de agricultura, de política geral, de administração, história, geografia e viagens” (Quental 1982, 122).

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890457 of personal commodities — commodities which were often the product of the alienated labor of other women (Charnon-Deutsch 2000). The existential experience of working-class women was literally obliterated, and the supposed understanding of their feminine condition, as developed by hegemonic cultures, became the antithesis of their everyday experience of the proletarian condition. However, it must be remembered that only 22.10% of the people who could read in 1860s Spain were women, and the average of female illiteracy was 67.03%. In 1878 “illiteracy was a common feature of 89.3% of Portuguese women” (Botrel 1993, 308–10; Vaquinhas & Cascão 1993, 451). The novel, even in those cases that we now consider unarguably literary, developed during several decades in the space between the press and the channels of paraliterary circulation. And between the novel and journalism there arose, during the last third of the nineteenth century, the new consciousness of the professional writer, which would help strengthen and naturalize the historical separation between so-called mass and high culture. One of the first embodiments of this conflict may be the career of Manuel Murguía, who, in the mid-1860s, when he had already published two novels and contributed to several Madrid papers (such as La Moda Elegante, Crónica de Ambos Mundos [Chronicles of both worlds] and El Museo Universal [The universal museum]), “spent days of deprivation in Madrid and slept many nights on the benches of the Oriente square.” In Julio Nombela y Tabares’ opinion, “nothing would have been easier than for him [Murguía] to improve his situation by writing novels, and he did take a few steps in that direction; but, rebelling against all impositions, he flatly refused to allow editors to impose titles and subjects upon him” (Nombela y Tabares 1976, 725).12 The generalization of newspaper serials in the Spanish and Portuguese press between 1843 and 1857 harnessed the production of originals that, provided they were successful, could be reprinted in book form, usually in the imprint of the corresponding journal (Magnien 1995, 15–86). One of the most successful cases in Spain was Luisa, by Manuel Fernández y González, written (dictated) for La Discusión between 1856 and 1857, and compiled in seven volumes of the “Ciento y un folletines” collection shortly after its last installment had appeared. According to Julio Nombela y Tabares, the print-run of its first edition was two hundred thousand copies, a very respectable quantity if we consider, as Nombela points out, that towards 1860 the number of subscriptions to a novel “in Madrid as well as in Barcelona rarely surpassed twelve to fourteen thousand” (Nombela y Tabares 1976, 727)13 and that the print-run of La Discusión — which was sold by subscription only — hardly reached six thousand daily copies. The case of Luisa and Manuel Fernández y González, the popular writer to whom most critical attention was devoted (see Botrel 2004), may serve as a starting point for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the last third of the nineteenth century. Nombela y Tabares’s testimony, despite all possible exaggerations, is telling in several respects. Chiefly, it indicates that the possible circulation of a novel, even before it is compiled in book form, was not limited to the readers of the journal wherein it was published, nor to its 12.

“Pasó en Madrid días de abstinencia y durmió muchas noches en los bancos de la plaza de Oriente” / “Nada más fácil para él entonces que haber mejorado su situación escribiendo novelas, y algunos pasos dio con tal propósito; pero rebelde a toda clase de imposiciones, se negó rotundamente a consentir que un editor le indicase el asunto y el título de las obras” (Nombela y Tabares, 725).

13.

“Tanto en Madrid como en Barcelona, no solía pasar de 12 a 14000” (Nombela y Tabares, 727).

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subscribers, nor even to the owners of a copy (see Botrel 2002). But it also demonstrates that the installment industry was almost exclusively based in Madrid and Barcelona, where the works that would later circulate through the whole country were conceived, written, or rehashed and printed, and where its distribution would begin. Within this double centralism arrangements were even made for joint publishing with Latin American bookshops and publishing houses. This was the case with Havana’s La Enciclopedia bookshop, which published El trapero de Madrid (The ragpicker of Madrid, 1861), by Antonio Altadill, at the same time as Inocencio López Bernagossi in Barcelona and the Librería Española in Madrid. The example of this “original novel, written by Antonio Altadill and based on the drama of the same title” (as the subtitle reads) could illustrate the extent to which the feuilleton industry fulfilled the preferences of theatrical audiences in Madrid and Barcelona: for the bourgeoisie and the middle classes who could afford to attend theatres and buy books, these novels were often a way to take the drama home. The newspaper serials of the rest of the country did not usually publish original novels, but translations of foreign works, often arranged or translated by budding feuilletinists (such as Manuel Pinheiro Chagas in Portugal; see Hibbs-Lissorgues 1995), or novels that had already appeared in Madrid or Barcelona newspapers. The presence of local authors was usually limited to poetry, very frequent until the end of the century, or, in the case of prose, mainly to tales and texts of customs and manners, although more or less picturesque stories of institutions, towns, or monuments (for instance, the Historia del alcázar de San Juan [Tale of the fortress of San Juan], by the Galician writer Félix Moreno Astray) were also a fixture. It is not coincidental that the first novel partially written in Galician, Marcial Valladares’s Maxina ou a filla espúrea (Maxina, or The spurious daughter), written around 1870, was only published in 1880 in serial form in La Ilustración Gallega y Asturiana (The Galician and Asturian erudition); an ideological space that would allow for a literature written in Galician seemed limited, to use the 1868 coinage of Jaume Collell, to a new “cantem massa i parlem poch” (let us sing much and speak little; see Murguía 1886, 171–200). Madrid and Barcelona were simultaneously the centers of both the literary or modern novel and the popular or paraliterary one, just like Lisbon and Porto were in the case of Portugal. One of the commonplaces of criticism of the time, and also later, is the idea that in paraliterature the name of the author is less important than the genre, the characters, the plot, and the setting of the work, as well as its medium, which become the most significant elements in the relationship between the reader and the text. This idea serves as a core around which writers who take part in the institutions and practices of hegemonic culture wrap many of their anxieties, and thus rationalize the existence of popular culture and paraliterature by relating it to an alleged hostile outside represented by industry, mechanical (re)production, and capitalist economy. From this perspective, it was disturbing that a novel could be written and signed by two authors, as was the case with La bandera de la muerte (The flag of death, 1862), by Víctor Balaguer and Antonio Altadill; it was just as bad that a novel could not be the work of the person who signed it, but that of a substitute, which is what happened when Julio Nombela y Tabares took over Manuel Fernández y González’s La Virgen de la Paloma (Our Lady of the dove, 1865) and finished it. In this case, the novel was later turned into a theatrical play. The interweaving of paraliterature and industry, ably summarized in the quotation from Palacio Valdés that heads these pages, reveals a deep anxiety, not only towards the ensemble of social practices that we call popular culture, but towards the basic functioning of capitalist economy. At a very primary level of symbolization and historical comprehension, paraliterature may represent a first attack of money and exchange value against a number of practices and

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890459 realms, known as art and literature, meant to be strongholds of use value translated as aesthetic delight. This transference is the very key to the schism between mass culture and high culture in the last third of the nineteenth century, even though there are variations in the manner in which hegemonic culture, that is, that which forces an active consensus from a dominant position (Gramsci 2001, 1555–1652, 1481–84), acknowledges and represents its antithesis. However, it is never too clear whether that object is paraliterature, as a complex of discursive practices, the public who consumes it, or the authors who produce it: Thus did Mr. Fernández y González carve out for himself an immense popularity, about which, however, he ought not to harbor many illusions. He had, and still has, many readers, but these are of such kind as cannot act as foundation for any sort of lasting reputation. They read for entertainment, in order to kill time, and most of the times they do not stop to look at the name of the author of the book they hold in their hands. If they do look at it, they are unable to feel admiration towards it, just like it never occurs a child to admire the inventor of the toy with which he amuses himself.14

The very idea that the reader may address the author of the moment in order to pay tribute to him or demand responsibilities from him seems to be a product of the historical configuration of the public sphere, “which breaks the isolation and distance of the writer and places him in the space of a permanent interpellation from the reader” (Martín Barbero 1993, 139). As a matter of fact, although Palacio Valdés’s views may easily pass for great literature’s eternal judgments on its minor or marginal, more or less spurious, more or less degraded forms, they are but splinters of the legitimating discourse of the new professional writers, who determine the aesthetic, ideological, and even economic specificity of their texts and their activity in terms of style and technique. It is certainly revealing that two of the main spokesmen of this discourse, Armando Palacio Valdés and Benito Pérez Galdós, and one of the most energetic and conscious professional writers, Eusebio Blasco y Soler, eventually wrote texts on Fernández y González — particularly because they all stress, as Galdós says, what his style could have been “if only the unruliness and frenzy of his life had not been so much in evidence in his literary production.”15 Nearly all the critics that concerned themselves with Fernández y González, whether for or against him, are agreed on this point: in a text dated 1879, when he was already the director of the renowned Revista Contemporánea (Contemporary journal), Manuel de la Revilla speaks highly of his “ability to instill interest and motion into his fiction,” although he then immediately laments the lack of “studies” and of “the polished depiction of characters, times and places, of the moral purpose and the distinction and good taste that the contemporary novel demands.”16 14.

“De este modo logró conquistar una inmensa popularidad sobre la cual tampoco debe forjarse grandes ilusiones el señor Fernández y González. Tuvo y aún tiene muchos lectores, pero son de tal jaez estos lectores que no pueden fundar ninguna reputación duradera. Leen por distraerse, por matar el tiempo, y las más de las veces no se detienen a mirar el nombre del autor del libro que sostienen en la mano. Si lo miran, no son capaces de tributarle admiración, a la manera que al niño jamás se le ocurre admirar al inventor del juguete con que se divierte” (Palacio Valdés 1964, 1187).

15.

“Si el desorden y el vértigo de su vida no se hubieran marcado tanto en su creación literaria” (Pérez Galdós 2004a, 545).

16.

“Habilidad para dar interés y movimiento a sus ficciones” / “estudio” / “acabada pintura de los caracteres, de las épocas y de los lugares, aquella intención moral, aquella distinción y buen gusto que reclama la novela contemporánea” (Revilla 1979, 7).

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The example of Fernández y González embodies both an argument on the social position of the professional writer and the historical struggle for the bourgois novel: even those critics who are most deeply involved in the central instances of hegemonic culture end up referring to him as a point of reference so as to mark out, drawing from his shortcomings and mistakes, the aesthetic and ideological ground that a truly modern, artistic, and literary novel ought to cover. But the starting point of this definition is a more or less tacit, more or less personalized, hostility towards the forms of popular novel that had been in existence for several decades, and this hostility nearly always turns towards their public and their circulation networks. In my opinion, that is the reason why the main novelists and critics of the time pay so much attention to the novel as a totality, that is, as an autonomous statement that may represent a complete and specific intentional unity; and also as an undivided and organic result of the process of text production, translated and objectified in that precisely defined social object, the book (see Bonet 1983, 19–63, 2004). The artistic, literary, or modern novel, as it is variously called by coetaneous critics, comes to be defined as the construction of a totality insofar as it detaches itself, not only from the economic logic that sustains the serials market, but also from the practical demands and problems of representation that this logic presses upon the producer of the text. In Chapter 8 of his Memòries Literàries (Literary memories), Narcís Oller recalls his dealings with Manuel Henrich in the process of publishing the Spanish translation of La febre d’or (Gold fever), and he laments the fact that he was reduced to doing so in a serial “Biblioteca de Novel·les” (Library of novels): Did he genuinely believe, if he had read La febre d’or, as he assured me he had, that the novelist Larra the younger, the novelist Pérez Escrich and the novelist Oller might appear, arm-in-arm, before the world — not as personal friends, which they perhaps might have been had they known each other personally — but as correligionaries of the same doctrine and defenders of the same with identical weaponry, fervor and manner? […] At the time of the boom of a Galdós, a Pereda, a Valera, a Pardo, a Father Coloma and a Valdés, he should not and could not go on presenting as luminaries of Spanish narrative names that were discredited by work at a fixed rate in serial novels.17

In one of his “Del estilo en la novela” (On the style of the novel) articles (1882), and after extensive remarks on Zola, Flaubert, and Balzac, Leopoldo Alas “Clarín” wrote about Fernández y González and other serial writers in the following terms: There is no doubting that we have moved on a bit since the times when the novel was in the hands of Fernández y González, that true romancer of the novel, who didn’t even knew how to write Spanish well, though he did possess some good faculties that his writerly incontinence destroyed in little time; it is also unarguable that Pérez Escrich, Tárrago, Ortega y Frías, etcetera, etcetera, did all they could to help their public wallow in idiocy. But the progress made should

17.

“Havia de creure de bona fe, si havia llegit La febre d’or, com ell m’assegurava, que el novel·lista Larra fill, el novelista Pérez Escrich i el novel·lista Oller podien presentar-se del bracet davant del món —no com a amics particulars, com potser ho haurien estat molt si s’haguessin conegut personalment— però sí com a correligionaris d’una mateixa doctrina i defensors d’ella amb iguals armes, fervor i procediment? […] En el ple esclat d’un Galdós, d’un Pereda, d’un Valera, d’una Pardo, d’un Padre Coloma i d’un Valdés, no devia ni podia seguir explotant encara com a eminències de la novel·listica espanyola, els noms desautorizats pel treball a preu fet de novel·les per entregues” (N. Oller 1962, 137–38).

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890461 not make anybody proud, if we bear in mind that all this was not literature, but belonged to the genre of blind beggars’ ballads, with no further difference between them than the readers of one or another type of page.18

Literature is the “us” from which Alas “Clarín” speaks, and, according to him, it owes its progresses to the gradual development of an awareness of style in the modern novel, which constitutes the very kernel of its artistic specificity: so much so, that in his well-known celebration of Balzac, Alas attributes his “irregularities and negligences,” sole flaw of an otherwise exemplary style, to “circumstances foreign to art: the pressure of time, for instance, or the need to fill up many sheets.”19 As with the quotation from Palacio Valdés that heads these pages, in Alas’s conception art is presented as an autonomous sphere, torn off and free from the practical determinations of material production, or, rather, as a realm of human activity that aspires to obliterate, if not leave behind, its own material conditions of possibility. His allusions to the link between art and life are, then, formulated over a split conception of what a writer’s life is that includes nearly everything that bourgeois ideology identifies with privacy — that ahistorical subjectivity that expresses nothing but its own atrophy — but not those aspects that may draw attention to the fabric of the text and the traces of its material production. That is to say, the writer’s life is revealed by everything but his/her activity, because the latter belongs to the sphere of art, conventionally separated from historical, concrete, and sentient life, which, at best, can only provide inert materials for creation (see Bourdieu 1992, 192–288, 161–70). This is why, as Galdós pointed out in his preface to José María de Pereda’s El sabor de la tierruca, the main task of the modern novelist is to elaborate a literary language that is able to “grasp the nuances of common conversation”: rather than the concrete text, subject to the contingencies of writing and perhaps to the demands of editors, newspaper directors, or readers, style becomes the true object of literary production: One of the main difficulties that the Spanish novel faces is how poorly elaborated and fashioned literary language is when it comes to grasping the nuances of common conversation. Orators and poets keep it in its old academic mold, preserving it from the efforts that conversation carries out in order to become its master; the stubborn customs duty of the well-read deprives it of suppleness. On the other hand the press, with rare exceptions, does not endeavor to give everyday language a literary slant, and these rank enmities between rhetoric and conversation, between the academy and the newspaper, are the cause of unsurmountable differences between the way of writing and the way of speaking, differences that are the despair and pitfall of the novelist.20 18. “No cabe duda de que hemos avanzado algo desde los tiempos en que estaba la novela en manos de Fernández y González, que nunca supo escribir en castellano siquiera, verdadero romancista de la novela, a pesar de algunas buenas facultades que su incontinencia de escritor destruyó bien pronto; tampoco es discutible que Pérez Escrich, Tárrago, Ortega y Frías, etcétera, etcétera, contribuían en todo lo que podían a que se abismase en la necedad el público que les leía. Pero el progreso realizado no debe envanecer mucho a nadie, si se considera que todo esto no era literatura, pertenecía al género de las coplas de los ciegos, sin más diferencia que la de los lectores de unos y otros papeles” (García Alas 2003, 118–19). 19.

“Incorrecciones y descuidos” / “circunstancias ajenas al arte: la premura del tiempo, por ejemplo, la necesidad de llenar muchos pliegos” (García Alas 2003, 85).

20. “Una de las mayores dificultades con que tropieza la novela en España consiste en lo poco hecho y trabajado que está el lenguaje literario para asimilarse los matices de la conversación corriente. Los oradores y los poetas le mantienen en sus antiguos moldes academicos, defendiéndole de los esfuerzos que hace la conversación para apoderarse de él; el terco régimen aduanero de los cultos le priva de flexibilidad. Por otra

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Galdós toys with the hegemonic conception of literature, already hardened into an institution, in order to assert a political and aesthetic purpose: the novel has yet to conquer its own literary condition, and all the efforts of those who aspire to be “emancipadores literarios” (Pérez Galdós 1882, iv; literary emancipators) must aim at this goal. Amongst those were also the great Catalan novelists of the time, such as Narcís Oller and Josep Yxart, whose only fault was, in the opinion of our critic, their insistence on writing in Catalan, a language he considered less flexible than Spanish and unavailable to the great public to which the modern novel ought to aspire (N. Oller 1962, 47–73). Unlike in Alas’s text, in Galdós’s preface there is no explicit reference to the reading public or its possible role in the configuration of the modern novel: everything is focused on the technical and verbal demands that face the producer of text. The paraliterary novel has thus magically turned, within the progressive movement that Galdós’s attributes to bourgeois literature, into a preliterary novel. And yet, strictly speaking, there have been few authors who were closer to the way of speaking of common conversation than Fernández y González, who for years dictated his serialized novels, to a regular copyist first and later to a stenographer. Wholly confident of his talent for literary improvisation, he had developed a method that tended to identify the oral statement with the unit of textual production, and its length over time with the different formats with which he worked (Nombela y Tabares 1976, 715–19; Burgos 1929). I think this procedure implies a very particular relationship with writing and with the ideological and verbal material that the novel organizes; as the Barón del Destierro says in Luisa: “a human author, a writer of novels would tell you, Luisa, I know not the reason, or he would tell you one more tale; but I, the Devil, I […] do not write, but tell stories.”21 Hardly any of his critics failed to praise the ingenuity, imagination, and narrative abilities of Fernández y González, and some, such as Galdós, even celebrated what they generously called “the gift to comprehend the epochs and represent them in his extremely lively narratives;”22 what, according to those critics, he lacked was the stylistic finesse that they were turning into the core of the specificity of the modern novel. Maybe Júlio César Machado was referring to the same thing when he wrote, in the first chapter of A vida em Lisboa (Life in Lisbon, 1857), “Yet I love you, Lisbon! I love you and everything that comes from you! And if in one or two pages of this book some of your features are daguerrotyped in the manner of a feuilleton, because although this book is a novel it is nevertheless a true four hundred pages long feuilleton, do not love me any worse for it.”23 However, the image of Fernández y González as a jumped-up storyteller did

parte la prensa, con raras excepciones, no se esmera en dar al lenguaje corriente la acentuación literaria, y de estas rancias antipatías entre la retórica y la conversación, entre la academia y el periódico, resultan infranqueables diferencias entre la manera de escribir y la manera de hablar, diferencias que son desesperación y escollo del novelista” (Pérez Galdós 1882, iv). 21.

“Un autor humano, un escritor de novelas te diría, Luisa, yo no sé la causa, ó te contaría un cuento más; pero yo, que soy el diablo, yo […] no escribo, sino que cuento historias” (Fernández y González 1857–58, 1:121).

22.

“El don de asimilarse las épocas y representarlas en sus narraciones animadísimas” (Pérez Galdós 2004a, 543).

23. “Todavia, eu amo-te; Lisboa! amo-te e a tudo quanto vem de ti! e se numa ou noutra página deste livro alguma das tuas feições se achar daguerreotipada folhetinìsticamente, porque este livro apesar de ser um romance, é todavia um verdadeiro folhetim de 400 páginas, nem por isso me queiras mal” (quoted in Simões 1967–72, 2:98).

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890463 not take long to consolidate and spread, and everyone who wrote about him in articles, profiles, and sketches appearing in the contemporary press highlighted the difficulty of finding “a livelier, sprightlier conversation” than his: “Manuel Fernández y González is not a man to remain silent. He spoke everywhere, with verbiage and humor, pouring out witticisms and deep thoughts that have today become common usage.”24 F. Hernández Girbal goes so far as to reminisce about the visits that “[l]os paletos que hacían feria en la calle de Alcalá” (1931, 106–07; oiks attending the fair on Alcalá street) paid to the Café de Levante in order to hear Fernández y González’s stories and more or less improvised tales. But, as was to be expected, very often the celebration of the speaker was to the detriment of the writer who, when composing his texts, depended less on elaboration and reflections about technique than on wit and invention, as though there were no difference whatsoever between conversation and writing. Galdós himself pointed out in his obituary that “in the circles he frequented he was surrounded by a crowd of friends, eager for his raw conversation, enamelled with charm and witty eccentricities.”25 It is not coincidental that this comment comes straight after other, more developed, remarks that touched on the abilities and achievements of the novelist from Seville: In prose, when he made up his mind to write properly, he was also able to evoke precisely the sly and witty turn of phrase of Quevedo and Cervantes. […] Had he pondered a little on his works, he would have reached places that few people reach. But the feverish task of his piecework did not allow all his faculties to shine with the same intensity. His was a temperament inimical to repose and mature, slow conception. He needed to constantly produce himself .26

Leaving aside what is possibly a Gallicism, this last sentence implies that textual production had become, for Fernández y González, a process of public self-production and affirmation: Hernández Girbal, echoing one of the most popular images amongst his contemporaries, even asserts that “the poet had already become a sort of living novel, and his conversations had turned into spoken novels where the fertile narrator, like the storytellers of his country, confused and identified his own deeds with the episodes in his novels, as though the feats of his characters were but loose pages of his own life.”27 Tomás Luceño, the stenographer who worked most often with Fernández y González from the mid-1860s onwards, asserted too, in a 1929 interview, that 24. “Una conversación más animada y chispeante” / “Manuel Fernández y González no es hombre que permanece callado. Habló en todas partes con verbosidad, con gracia, vertiendo rasgos de ingenio y pensamientos profundos que corren hoy día de boca en boca” (Anon. 1880, n.p.). 25.

“En los círculos a que concurría, le rodeaba multitud de amigos, ávidos de su conversación cruda, esmaltada de donaires y extravagancias ingeniosas” (Pérez Galdós 2004a, 545).

26. “En prosa, cuando se proponía escribir bien, remedaba también con feliz acierto la frase socarrona y llena de donaire de Quevedo y Cervantes. […] Meditando un poco sus obras, habría llegado adonde pocos llegan. Pero la tarea febril de su composición a destajo no permitió que todas sus facultades brillasen por igual. Era un temperamento enemigo del reposo y de la concepción lenta y madura. Necesitaba producirse constantemente” (Pérez Galdós 2004a, 544 & 543–44). 27.

“El poeta había llegado ya a ser una especie de novela viviente, y sus conversaciones novelas habladas, en que el fértil narrador, a semejanza de los cuentistas de su tierra, confundía e identificaba sus propios hechos con los lances de sus novelas, como si las hazañas de sus personajes no fueran más que páginas sueltas de su propia vida” (Hernández Girbal 1931, 163).

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“some days, when he dictated, it was frightening to see him, for it seemed that he had actually lived those things.”28 By resorting to a copyist or a stenographer, requested to write by “following the spoken word” or “the voice,” the division of labor is set into the process of production of the text, and even in the very texture of the manuscript. What makes this matter more important is the fact that, for the writers of the nineteenth century, who worked far closer to the printing press than their predecessors, the manuscript had become more than the immediate product of the private activity of writing, prior to the prospect of publishing: it was also the conventional stronghold of aesthetic and ideological intentionality. The concepts of textual production and style as defined by the bourgeois ideology of art depend narrowly on writing, which according to the logocentric interpretation allows words to be corrected and re-elaborated, by virtue of its nearly unlimited iterability, until their sense becomes adequate to the subject’s intention (Derrida 1967, 15–41; 1972, 365–93; 1995). Even textual criticism and philology reconstruct the vicissitudes of the author’s intention by giving a hierarchical order to the discrepancies of his writing. The manuscript and the galley proof, which caused so much trouble to those working during the age of expansion of the printed commodity, are the two central spaces of the production of sense and style: the galley proof does not only confront the intentions, perchance divergent, of the author in the different stages of the production of his text; it also brings the author or his/her copyist’s intentionality face to face with the readings of typesetters and typographers (see the anecdotes involving printers and typesetters mentioned by Hernández Girbal 1931, 119–21). Any attentive reader of Leopoldo Alas “Clarín,” for instance, can understand how much was at stake for authors when correcting proofs, using them almost as a second draft and preview of the public image of their texts. Fernández y González’s very procedure, shared by many other serial novelists, yields responsibility over the manuscript and suppresses all the spaces where a reconstruction of the text’s intentionality could have been possible. It is not coincidental that, as the rhythm of printing in serialized novels and in the press became faster, galleys and second and even third proofs became hugely important in hegemonic literature. Clarín, to look no further, demanded them from Manuel Fernández Lasanta for some of the central chapters in Su único hijo (His only child), and the practice must have been quite frequent (see Blanquat & Botrel 1981, 53). We may surmise that, since at the time there were scarcely any shorthand typing or linotype machines in Spain (Botrel 1993, 182–262), this manner of literary production was remarkably risky for publishers, or, at least, that it imposed a certain degree of commitment to the works they published. On the other hand, for professional writers it could signify an act of affirmation, insofar as the discursive elaboration of their novels and the purification of their style symbolically asserted themselves over the most immediate economic or market pressures. Already in 1872 Madrid had seen the first workers’ strikes “in order to get rid of malpractices” such as “the correction of second and third proofs” (Morato 1925, 69). But paraliterary novelists could not rely on these forms of legitimation, perhaps because they also lacked hegemonic literature’s aesthetic and ideological problems with regard to their actual and potential readership. The very conditions of production of their works, which generally left nearly as little time for preparation as for turning the draft into a definitive text, probably 28. “Algunos días, cuando dictaba, causaba miedo verlo, parecía que aquellas cosas las había vivido” (Burgos 1929, 177).

Elements for a critique of the paraliterary novel in the Iberian Peninsula, 1860–1890465 forced them to always work with clearly established and defined verbal materials that they could effortlessly keep on the tip of their tongue. It is likely that the elaboration of this dense discursive background, the foundation over which they could later improvise, appeared to the novelist as a single task, the work of a lifetime, even though it materialized periodically in the shape of portions or tesserae, that is, the different instalments of the diverse novels. For as long as this craft was possible, the paraliterary novelist’s activity was not reduced to the mere generic production of textual commodities, because it preserved the basic dynamics of handicraft: unlike the more or less unique text that the realist novel consecrates in the field of hegemonic culture, paraliterature displays a complex discursive universe, repeatedly realized within each novel and, in some cases, even realized in divergent ways within each instalment (Jameson 1979). Trial and error, improvisation and serendipity, the pre-written fragment describing people or places, translation, quotation, and plagiarism cohere in the text in a non-hierarchical manner, and corrections do not cancel the corrected words or fragments. When Palacio Valdés declares that the serialized novel “leaves the realm of literature and enter the darker, and more lucrative, realm of industry,” he is positing a deeper statement than it seems: he not only marks out the conflictive sphere of art, he also defines by apophasis the field of industry and economy, which a bourgeois novelist presents as overtly hostile realms. In the foreword to one of his best-known works, Eusebio Blasco, who cannot be accused of lacking ambition, placed himself in the same social field as “everybody who has made anything that deserves people’s attention,” as though the public character of his activity imposed itself over any other possible specificity: “I call my kin the artists, writers, actors, singers, orators, bankers, beautiful women, and private gentlemen who at some time and for whatsoever reason have given the press an excuse to talk about them.”29 It is most remarkable that paraliterary novelists, who never felt the need to work out whether their works were part of the great hegemonic literature or not, never contemplated the possible integration of their activity into capitalist economy with such anxiety.

29. “Todo el que ha hecho algo que merezca la atención de las gentes” / “Llamo los míos a los artistas, literatos, actores, cantantes, oradores, banqueros, mujeres bonitas y caballeros particulares que han dado ocasión a la prensa para hablar de ellos en alguna ocasión y por cualquier motivo” (Blasco 1886, 5).

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration Serge Salaün Specific information regarding the Spanish stage throughout the Restoration (1874–1931) continues to be little known and studied, despite increased research in the field over the last twenty years. There are several reasons for this. The first is the immensity of this heritage and the fact that studies that are global in approach outmatch the efforts of isolated researchers. Secondly, theatre from this era has been branded as lighthearted, comic, and/or frivolous culture, i.e., “minor” or even “extremely low.” Thirdly, the university tradition tends to favor the “serious” genres and the few playwrights (García Lorca, Valle-Inclán, and a few more) who represent safe, exportable (in theory, because in fact Spain is totally absent from global studies of European theatre), and the “noble” values of national theatre. The study of theatre in Spain continues to be the victim of a series of concepts and analytical instruments that have never been revised. Thanks to the efforts of certain musicologists (formed around Emilio Casares Rodicio and his team of researchers), the theatrical genre of the zarzuela is being rehabilitated. However, once again, the task is daunting and hundreds of composers — including some of the great ones — and thousands of works remain to be studied. Dramatic literature is a vast, almost pristine territory: the vigorous zeal of local studies allows individuals such as Carlos Arniches (Alicante), Pedro Muñoz Seca (El Puerto de Santa María), Miguel Ramos Carrión (Zamora) to shine briefly in the firmament of academic conferences and commemorative events, but the effects of these “regional” celebrations normally cool off quite quickly. Theatrical criticism, so important to the reception and formation of national taste, does not seem to interest anyone: only rarely do a few figures merit comment, perhaps a short article (José Yxart, Ramón Pérez de Ayala, Luis Araquistáin — always prominent figures who are not representative of national tendencies). Theatre guilds, the actors, singers, musicians, dancers, not to mention businessmen, directors and owners, set designers, electricians, decorators, prompters, schools of declamation, conservatories, and box office mechanisms are equally forgotten. Hence, there are still many uncharted territories for historical, economic, sociological, cultural, and aesthetic studies both in terms of the scenic and of the textual aspects of theatre. It is an oft-repeated, but true, cliché that the panorama of these Restoration spectacles is of an exceptional richness. The task of measuring such an imposing patrimony is not easy; overall data are lacking and many of the figures or inventories are not to be trusted, either because they are partial or because they are prior to 1936. There is also a strange consensus among professionals (directors, authors, even performers) to scorn the statistical efforts of tax collectors and those from the Society of Authors. Is this another Spanish singularity, as compared to the work of the SACEM (Société des Auteurs, Compositeurs et Éditeurs de musique) in France, for example, which served as Spain’s model in the creation of the Society of Authors in Madrid? Research indicates that the first attempt to take stock of these Spanish theatres can be found in the magazine Comiquitos (Little comics; a very serious and very conservative publication, despite its title). Between March of 1895 and August of 1896, it lists the country’s most important theatres, though it is unclear as to why the tally ends when it does. The statistics reveal more than six hundred theatres, in two hundred cities and towns, but only tabulates theatres considered to be respectable: the list does not include summer theatres, nor does it include, most importantly, doi 10.1075/chlel.29.38sal © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration467 the minor playhouses which were not built to last, and which therefore do not merit the title of “theatre,” but which are nonetheless abundant — frequent use of words such as barracón (a type of makeshift wooden stalls where popular shows occurred) or pabellón (stand), refer to various, more or less durable constructions which became increasingly common from this time on. By 1896 the wave of construction reached its peak. An example of this can be found in Barcelona’s Paralelo recreational area, which went from having zero theatres in 1894 (the date of its inauguration) to nine in 1905. This is not counting the innumerable barracones which offered every sort of spectacle on either side of the avenue for two kilometers, a stretch of establishments conceived only for entertainment and pleasure — a concentration of leisure until then unheard of. The majority of provincial capitals and other cities had (at least) two theatres: one for high comedy, the long and noble genres, which generally went on hiatus or had to accept comic companies in order to survive (these often carried names like “Teatro Prinicipal” or “Calderón”) and another for the shorter, lighter genres which had multiple runs and were economically feasible. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Madrid boasted between fifteen and twenty theatres (according to the season), and Málaga (with 130,000 inhabitants in 1908 according to Ricci [1996]), six (one seat for every twenty six inhabitants). To these official theatres, the “amateur” companies must also be added. Of these absolutely nothing is known, save that they appeared at an astonishing rate. In 1900, Cartagena (population 90,000) had two large theatres and five enthusiast societies with regular programing appearing in the press. In 1896, Valencia boasted ten theatrical societies in clubs, casinos, and playhouses. With the expansion of Varietés or “variety shows,” the growth of “salons,” cabarets, concert cafes, music halls — especially after 1900 — continued up until the war. In 1907–08, backed judicially by the authorities, the Sociedad de Autores Españoles (Society of Spanish Authors), the true national administration of the shows, attempted to elaborate a census regarding every type of bar with music (determinate upon the presence of a piano). The figure of 1362 (close to 1500 with additional lists until 1910) is incomplete due to rampant fraud and because many cities and provinces are left unaccounted for. Another census, dated 1932–33, is even more unsatisfactory, as it covers less that half the country. In 1912, a competent administrator evaluated the number of establishments with music at five or six thousand (Salaün 1990, 51–54). It is interesting to note that the statistics on neighboring countries, more populated and with tighter governmental control, show that this is a European phenomenon. In 1899, England had 580 theatres (five million tickets sold daily) and another 3000 halls (1,250,000 tickets sold daily), according to El Nuevo Fígaro (The new Fígaro; 30 November 1899). In Germany at the turn of the century, there were 270 theatres, 380 variety halls, 1,650 concert halls, and 1,500 concert cafes, according to El Mundo Artístico Musical (The artistic musical world; 30 March 1900). The originality of the Spanish case undoubtedly resides in the crushing hegemony of the short (and musical) genres and in its system of “teatro por horas” (theatre by the hour), in effect since 1867, which multiplies the number of representations and tickets sold as compared to neighboring countries. The “noble” and long genres are in obvious decline. Opera and grande zarzuela survive thanks to the perseverance of certain minority aristocratic sectors. For example, it is revealing that in 1905 Madrid’s very dignified Teatro de la Zarzuela rented out space to the company Novedades, which was devoted to the cuplé (Spanish couplet). High comedy was boring and did not fill the halls, and in order to attract audiences the entrepreneurs did not hesitate to end the evening with a juguete cómico (short comical play) piece or some light-hearted sketch.

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It would not be until the twenties and thirties, with Lorca, La Barraca, and the Misiones, that the classic Spanish repertoire would be rescued from oblivion. In Madrid, Barcelona, and in the provinces, the short genres, with or without music, made up seventy or seventy-five percent of the repertoire, and between eighty and ninety percent of the performances. Thus, it really was the monopoly situation described by José Deleito y Piñuela, translating into a vast increase in premieres in order to feed a situation where successes (always “clamorous” or “tremendous”) were not as frequent as the critics-for-hire claimed, and short-lived works which abruptly vanished became more and more numerous. Between 1890 and 1900, according to Marciano Zurita (1920), fifteen hundred works were released in Madrid. Between 1900 and 1920, the phenomenon grew, and continued until the war, contradicting those who claimed to observe a decline in the género chico (light dramatic or operatic one-act playlets). In Madrid this was recognizable, however the provinces continued to feed copiously upon the traditional sainetero (one-act comedy) and zarzuela (Spanish operetta) repertoire. In average figures, between 1900 and 1936, some two hundred works premiered in Madrid every month (which comes out to be roughly one thousand representations per month) (Dougherty & Vilches de Frutos 1990, 1997). According to research by Alejandro Miquis, for the year 1909 in Madrid, of the 411 premiered plays, 377 were one-act pieces, 12 consisted of two acts, 18 in three acts, 3 in four acts, and only 1 in five acts. In sum, the short genre (one or two acts) corresponds to almost 95% of the represented works (“El Género Grande,” Comedias y comediantas, 15 December 1909). The provinces imitated the capital. Cartagena offered four daily functions during the week (in the theatre devoted to the género chico; the other offered only long theatre, with shorter seasons), with seven shows on Saturday, Sunday, and holidays. In just one month (January of 1900), in one hundred and fifty representations, forty-one distinct works were premiered, twenty-four of them zarzuelas. In Salamanca, in January-February of 1901, and in spite of the reticence of Unamuno — who would prefer his city to be safe from the pestilence of commercial theatre — twenty-three zarzuelas and sainetes, fourteen variety show spectacles, and only one long piece (Electra, by Benito Pérez Galdós) premiered. In Málaga, between September 1908 and June 1909, 321 different works were premiered, totaling some 1,130 representations. Some zones were more frivolous than others, but no province was left untouched, and the short genre dominated. Research indicates that the multitude of “amateur” companies devoted themselves to the comic repertoire: the theater of Art and Essay was only an eccentricity for the upper class, such as the Baroda or Lora families. The system of “theater by the hour,” generalized throughout Spain, implies a truly enormous supply which corresponded to an equally enormous demand. Around 1900, the business prospered and the halls were packed. Chispero (1953) even implies that each night many would be left standing around at the entrance of the Apolo in Madrid, the “Cathedral” of the género chico. In 1900, the Apolo had seating for between two thousand and twenty-two hundred people, though according to the sources a public much larger than this probably attended. The presence of box seats, bathrooms, tertulias (gatherings), and gallineros (the upper gallery in Spanish playhouses) implies larger crowds: roughly five hundred people standing, squeezed in like “sardinas en banasta” (sardines in a basket). Six daily secciones (sessions, which was the consecrated term at the time) were offered: two in the afternoon and four in the evening, 335 days of the year, which adds up to a total (estimating conservatively) of some four million tickets sold per year. In 1900, Madrid had half a million inhabitants; it also had ten other theatres devoted to the género chico

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration469 (the Eslava, the Lara, etc.) — all of which were competing frenetically with the Apolo. This fact indicates a phenomenal number of tickets being sold. In 1901, business was so good that the Apolo added a seventh daily session. This brief inventory of playhouses, representations, and tickets sold undeniably illustrates a Spanish theatrical panorama unparalleled in Europe. On the other hand, it poses the difficult question as to the definition of “public” and of the concept of “popular.” This widespread popularity (seen in terms of sales) is very important at a social level. There is no doubt that the invention of “hourly theatre” marked a decisive mutation, as much on a cultural as on a social level, because it implies access to the theatre by social sectors which had until then been deprived of such shows. El Recreo, which became fashionable in 1867, appears to have been a slightly uncomfortable playhouse which offered any number of short works for a drink — clearly imitating the Parisian cafe concert system. Indeed, this establishment represented a true “democratization” of the spectacles, featuring a mixed public which did not have to invest time, money, or in the “toilettes,” as was the case with the aristocratic opera audiences or in the bourgeois coliseums. However, this situation was fleeting: as soon as this new género chico moved to the better conditioned Variety shows, it immediately took on the qualities of bourgeois theatre and became part of the identity of the cities’ middle classes, who in economic and political terms would be the true protagonists of the Restoration. In the vast majority of cases, theatres devoted to the género chico were centrally situated venues (next to banks and chic cafes, in well-lighted places), modern, comfortable, sometimes luxurious, where the dominant new classes could be seen. The Apolo, which so many present as a “popular,” or working class, venue is really more of a luxurious theatre. This is reflected by the fact that in 1888 electricity was installed, and in 1897, heating (although the electrical system did not begin working well until 1891). Some theatres in the southern part of the country even had refrigeration capacities in summer, which is an evident luxury at that time, even for the wealthiest classes. The night life habits, the nochernieguismo as described by Chispero, were born out of the modernity that surrounded theatre life and the comfort represented by the centrally situated, well-lighted areas where these ludic establishments were concentrated. After the fourth show at the Apolo, “the respectable types go gambling, and later to the houses of ill repute, and finally to the buñolerías” (bakery specializing in fried dough) (El teatro por dentro, Madrid, September 1907). Not everyone had the time or the money to enjoy these pleasures, but it is true that the theatres closed late (towards one or one-thirty in the morning), despite the efforts (in vain) of the local authorities. Around 1900, offices, administrative centers, and shops did not open before 11am — an interesting adaptation undertaken by the economic and administrative life of the country to the cultural life implied by the theatre. In reality, theatre in Spain, for those who could enjoy it — paralleling what happened in opera for the very select few — owed a large part of its success to the intense sociability that goes along with what theatre essentially is. It implies social life and certain practices, both in and out of theatre, that are in rhythm with the cycle of the seasons, year-round. For women, theatre allowed oneself to be seen, an elegant place to show off the “toilette” revered since the invention of the “día de moda” (fashion day), normally Thursday, where one could mingle and flirt, engaging in amorous trysts and future matrimonial engagements. The men, before, during, and after, had their own rituals. Before the event, especially in the provinces, the specialized press facilitated an organized welcome for the “troupes,” a reception at the station, banquets, and myriad homages

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paid to the actors and actresses. During the performance, since the lights never went off, and because many of the works were known by heart, the audience passed the time eating, drinking, chatting, squinting through prismatic lenses, even reading. Here, the audience was at the same time spectator of the drama, and spectator of and actor in the society to which he or she belonged or longed to become a part of. During the breaks, the hallways, the foyer, or the ambigú (concession stand) were meeting places in every sense. Following the performance, mingling with the divas and actresses was a commonplace occurrence for the more fortunate spectators. The theatre was truly a lieu de vie with infinite ramifications outside its walls, which explains why the social strata who enjoyed it clung to their habits and privileges up until the war (and even under Francoism). Beginning in 1900, in the cabarets which the wealthiest immediately took to, the mechanisms of sociability were the same, and were made easier by the proximity of the artists. Until 1912–15, the cabarets seem to have been characterized by a certain mixing of social classes: each “consumed” according to his/her means and social position. The Arnau in Barcelona, for example, accepted both the bohemians and Santiago Rusiñol and his gang; textile magnates coexisted with blue-collar workers from the city. Later, it seems that due to the effects of moralization campaigns, establishments — theatres as well as cabarets — would come to obey a strict social hierarchy. The upper classes would have their haunts, normally centrally located, and the lower classes would tend to proliferate at edges of the cities (of these little or nothing is known, since the press failed to mention either their playbills or that they existed at all). Who went to see the género chico? Where did these millions of tickets come from? In the first place, we have the aristocracy and high bourgeois that occupied the most comfortable and visible positions. It is they who built new theatres throughout the country, and in exchange reserved for themselves the right (free and lasting) to numerous boxes and seats of their choice. It is quite revealing that of the four “Sociedades de palco” (box societies) of Madrid’s Apolo at the outset of the twentieth century, two were strictly aristocratic, one was for the upper-class bourgeois, and the fourth related to figures from the showbusiness jet-set. The highest classes succeeded in alternating between opera and the most frivolous theatre, as they would also do, circa 1900, with regards to Cafés — salones (parlors) and cabarets where the cuplé and variety shows were most prevalent. These upper classes set the tone, at all levels, and above all offered models (social, cultural, existential, etc.) that all the other social classes, including the working class, woud copy. Cultural mimesis is a key point in the cultural history of the time, and it was the stage, in all of its manifestations, that played the principal role. The majority of the audience of Chico theatre belonged to other middle- and lower-bourgeois classes, who saw it as a means of social ascent and visibility, on a par with their new pretensions: “Morning suit and white tie, the Italian opera. Jacket and hat, the zarzuela” (Peña y Goñi 1967, 212; in reality caps are not often seen in visual documentation of the time). Chico theatre was, without a doubt, the cultural alibi of the dominant Spanish classes, their shop window and musical and literary heritage. This type of theatre would be used cynically as a political and social weapon, as a factor of social cohesion, and as an instrument to manipulate opinion, especially around the key concept of patriotism. The zarzuela was patriotic in its support of the war against Cuba. According to José Deleito y Piñuela, La marcha de Cádiz (The march of Cádiz) was a symptom of “the national drunkenness that pushed us to disaster” (1949, 131). The fact that the zarzuela Trafalgar (1891) presents the naval defeat as a model of heroism is typical of this process.

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration471 It was also used as a protest and cultural rallying cry when necessary (for example, the zarzuelas supposedly “from the opposition,” which in reality limited themselves to protesting against that which stifled their expansion, such as bureaucrats, duty taxes, “consumption,” the insufficient modernization of the cities, or the poor quality of the streetlamps, as is the case in La Gran Vía [Main Street]). It was also used as an ideological weapon against the workers’ unions and organized proletariat, and encouraged the adoption of a submissive attitude among the working classes. Particularly salient examples of this can be found in La clase baja (The lower class), by Sinesio Delgado — future president of the Sociedad de Autores Españoles — and José López Silva, with music by Apolinar Brull, where the “good guy” is the boss. In Los descamisados (The shirtless ones, 1893), written by Arniches and López Silva, with music by Federico Chueca, the party members of the PSOE (Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party) are lazy, unemployed, and crafty. Los trabajadores (The workers, 1893) by Jackson Veyán and Ruperto Chapí, is another example of anti-labor satire. The hundreds of zarzuelas and historical and patriotic sainetes, always featuring heroic and kindly military characters, encouraged a national unity in support of all military endeavors (Cuba, North Africa, The Carolines), and assume a harmonious regional diversity without conflicts. The identification of the middle- and lower-class bourgeois with the género chico was manifested in several ways. Quite logically, it adopted a position contrary to the aristocratic and Italianizing romanticism fostered by the opera, and also demonstrated an insistent will to define itself as “realist” theatre, a faithful reflection of national realities (which it was certainly not), as one of the the stage-represented tranches de vie, as described by Yxart in La Verbena de la Paloma (The feast of the dove). Concepts such as casticismo (consummately Spanish) or costumbrismo (costumbrism), connected with the representation of the everyday life of poor people (in plazas and taverns, social types, and provincial geography). This zeal for scenic realism had much to do with a will to spread and impose a social and political project using the “popular” as alibi, in which genuine townspeople were invited to see themselves represented positively on the stage as metonym of the nation. The myth of a realist stage, already untenable from the beginning, would continue until the twenties and thirties, counter to all logic, when the rift between the commercial stage and reality was definitively consummated and when the poorest (and least conservative) abandoned the theatres. To imagine that La del manojo de rosas (She of the bunch of roses), El caserío (The farmhouse), or Doña Francisquita were “popular” works that reflected the reality of the country is a testament to both the political myopia in commercial theatre, and the solidity of a social conception of theatre. During the Restoration it was the power of the dominant Spanish classes, united in their appreciation for laughter and song, which explains the extraordinary expansion of commercial theatre between 1870 and 1930. It was used as a cultural consolidation of their political hegemony. The Parisian bourgeois had the Baron Haussmann and Jacques Offenbach; those in Madrid had the Marquis of Salamanca and the género chico; the Barcelonans, the Ensanche and the Liceo (and several others). These parallels mark an age in Europe. As to the presence of the “people” in these theatres? If we speak of the proletariat, working class, and farmers, everything seems to indicate that they were either absent or a tiny minority. It is one thing if the critics of the time (coming from the bourgeois) proclaimed that it was a “popular” genre, or if intellectuals with organiscist conceptions of culture like Peña y Goñi or Armando Cotarelo — the great defenders of the zarzuela and of the national genres — speak of a

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“democratization” of culture with the representation of a popular Spain, but the physical presence of the “subaltern classes” as described by Gramsci is quite another. The ideological strategies of the Spanish bourgeoisie throughout the Restoration are culturally based. It is therefore necessary to analyze the struggle between those in favor of the zarzuela as “national opera” and the birth of folklore as a science (consider, for example, the work of Demófilo, the father of Antonio Machado in the 1880s) that rehabilitates regional cultures. It is somewhat amusing that Peña y Goñi, who had fought so hard to revive the zarzuela, was also one of the most fervent partisans of bullfighting and the running of the bulls. A theatre seat (which cost, on average, one full day’s work), box seats, and even the front row of the first and second floors were not accessible to people of limited means, and even less so was the system of vouchers that covered a large portion of each theatre. The gallinero and the system of “general admission,” far cheaper, at least when they were for standing room only, do not, in theory, rule out the presence of truly popular elements, but I do not believe that they represented an ample sector of audiences, and even less a “public” (in the sense of loyal community who identifies with what they see on stage). In the provinces, it would appear that the “popular” sector was almost totally excluded, in favor of the middle- and upper-class spectators that have converted the theatre into the symbol of their rank, tastes, and aspirations. The few existing descriptions of the spectators of the cheapest establishments paint a colorful picture made up of modest bureaucrats, low-level military men, students, merchants (horteras), the bullfight circles, fashion designers, and a few servant girls at the afternoon vermouth sessions, etc. They are pejoratively described as “people of bronze,” but in no way does this group include working or rural sectors. These “people of bronze” in a way represent a downward extension of the economic and social sectors not yet pertaining to the small bourgeois but which, due to their work or way of life, aspire to integrate into the class just above their own. They identify with these classes and play the cultural card in order to attain it. Beginning in 1900, one element of the much-touted crisis of theatre was precisely because the working class (the least moneyed class) progressively began to drift away from commercial theatre, ceasing to identify themselves with it, in favor of the cafes and cabarets where the prices were more reasonable, the shows practically the same (minus the intrigue), and the conditions better (closer seating, less formal). It is with good reason that the cabaret was called “the theatre of the poor.” Up until the war, traditional theatres would be more and more frequented solely by the bourgeoisie (high and medium), who latched onto its stage culture as a badge of identity. There are clear consequences: this mesocratic “public” would become more and more conservative and hostile to any sort of renewal in theatre. In the provinces, the phenomenon was even more evident. The brothers Álvarez Quintero, the Paso brothers, Jacinto Benavente, Manuel Linares Rivas, and the very anti-republican Muñoz Seca embody thirty years of commercial theatre’s evolution towards defensive and reactionary postures. The (near) absence of the working class in the commercial theatres does not mean that they do not have access to this immense, and particularly musical, stage heritage. The great paradox, or the tremendous acuity of the promoters — economic, political, and artistic — of the género chico is that they managed to construct it as a national culture that overflows from established venues. The diffusion of the género chico spread across the entire country thanks to the cafes, town music kiosks (the majority of composers begin their careers in choirs, municipal bands, or as cafe pianists), street organs, barrel organs, and the like. The music of a zarzuela could become

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration473 popular, sometimes even before its opening night, because advertising techniques were effective by this time, and due to posters, specialized and abundant newspapers, and later, the radio. In fact, gossip has it that Chapí himself handed out the cantables (sung parts of the zarzuela) of his forthcoming zarzuelas to the street musicians in order to prepare the work’s success. The cantables of the zarzuelas tended to take on a life of their own, as cuplés, and circulated with a much greater ease, as copyright laws of the time were not stringent, despite the efforts of the Sociedad de Autores Españoles. With the rapid growth of cabarets and variety shows, the phenomenon accelerated and singers did not hesitate to enhance their repertoire with fashionable zarzuelas or to pilfer each other’s songs. This was the case with “El relicario” (The reliquary) which Raquel Meller stole from Mary Focela without a second thought. The only difference between a cantable and a zarzuela was the place in which it was sung and the performer’s representation of it. Song was an extremely effective factor for cultural continuity. Therefore the presence of an authentic popular, even national, culture, is evident, and was later extended by radio and record format — perceptible up to the present day. Casticism and hybridization The género chico, which is often presented as one of the cultural products that is most genuinely national and supposedly embodies a consummate Spanish “essence” is, in reality, a model phenomenon of cultural fusion. National elements are constantly enriched by foreign contributions. Since its outset, the national stage fed off of ingredients coming from all of Europe, particularly France, and the género chico was a theatrical formula open to all contamination. Nearly all critics agree that the género chico derives its textual nature from the sainete, its alternating sung/spoken parts from the zarzuela grande, and its preference for working class people and environment from the tonadilla escénica (stage musical interlude). But, as was the case throughout all of Europe at the time, foreign ingredients were grafted onto the vernacular ground, dynamizing what already existed there. The “invention” of this formula in 1867–68 has already been mentioned: the “hourly theatre” owes much to the European tradition (English and French) of cafe concerts that proliferated from 1840 onward. And at the same time, it owes a great deal to the bufos (jesters) that made Paris into the world capital of stage frivolity under the Second Empire. Francisco Arderius imported this trend directly from Paris and popularized it throughout Spain between 1866 and 1872. The bufos craze was short-lived, and the paragons of cultural nationalism were unsparing with their criticism: “Los bufos have been a sort of measles which our [grand] zarzuela has endured without great upheaval and from which it now finds itself totally cured” (Peña y Goñi 1967, 205). And yet the influence of the bufos was decisive. On the one hand, they formed a lighthearted and cheery lyric stage, resolutely liberated from moral, ideological, and didactic complexes. On the other, they inaugurated the age of stage pleasure, where humor, visuality, and sensuality constitute dynamic elements. El joven Telémaco (Young Telemachus, 1866) by Eusebio Blasco with music by José Rogel was represented 33 times in a row, an unheard-of figure at the time, in part owing to the attractive suripantas (female chorus line) which foreshadowed all the galloping sicalipsis (a term which comes to represent sexual malevolence and erotic craftiness) present in later theatre. Furthermore, Arderíus introduced modern methods of cultural administration; he was the first true businessman of the Spanish theatre

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and used marketing — propaganda — on a national scale. He was also characterized by his care with regards to theatrical set design, and especially lighting. It was an important step towards the conception of the zarzuela as a total spectacle. The contribution of the great composers of the time, such as Francisco Asenjo Barbieri, gave it both musical consistency and a festive vigor, along the same lines as Offenbach or Charles Lecoq and their Parisian bufos. A parody was not long in the making. In 1867, Telémaco en la Albufera (Telemachus in the lagoon), by Rafael María Liern and Rogel, parodies El joven Telémaco from the prior year. Famous composers, librettists, and orchestra directors did not hesitate to intensely participate in creations so lacking in “nobility.” The contagiousness of the género chico in revistas (popular theatrical entertainment that combines dance, music, and sketches) was equally silenced, although it was rigorously contemporary. The first Spanish revista, once again following the French model, was even its forerunner: in 1865, a sort of journal documenting the year’s events appears, fittingly titled 1864–65, a “comicallyrical-fantastical journal in one act, original and in verse.” In 1866, Revista de un muerto (Revista of a dead person) appears. As was the case with the bufos, the participation of the best composers — Barbieri, Cristóbal Ourdrid, Emilio Arrieta — accorded dignity to a genre considered to be minor, but which would have an enduring existence, until the war, if with different modalities. In fact, between 1900 and 1936, taking into account the appearance of the operetta (Parisian or Viennese) and the contamination by the cuplé, to speak of the género chico is ambiguous, since it covers a wide range of products — encompassing even the abundant repertoire of the género ínfimo (infamous genre), which normally offered the same audacity and more exposed flesh. The 1910 La Corte de Faraón (Pharoah’s court), is a mixture of zarzuela, operetta, and opera parody, with many elements of variety shows, cuplés, and a good dose of sicalipsis. In the twenties, the operetta triumphed in the lyric theatres, even in the Apolo. It was the great age of Pablo Luna, Jacinto Guerrero, and Francisco Alonso, with texts by Joaquín Abati, Maximiliano Thous, or Gabriel Briones, which are not excessively “intellectual.” In the thirties, the journal adhered to the French model and later followed the American example of Broadway: Fernando Bayés brought entire spectacles from Paris for his Barcelonan stages, and shortly thereafter Manuel Sugrañés copied the American journals (Kiss me, Love me — always with six letters). They are an example of the assimilation of European and Anglosaxon products for petit bourgeois and popular audiences, and are without excessive aesthetic standards (the Spanish concept of Revista de visualidad already indicates that the attraction of these spectacles lies in their visual elements — luxurious sets and barely-clad “girls” — and their light-hearted songs). The first foreign contamination of the national genre comes musically when, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the Italian opera eliminates the cloying French influence. The Italian influence will become the standard reference throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth century, a true musical “imperialism.” Tomás Bretón, during his reception into the Spanish Royal Academy, went as far as to speak of “italianitis.” All the great composers (Barbieri, Arrieta — who studied in Rome — Bretón, Serrano, even Pablo Sorozábal) began their careers with Italianizing works. This explains the late and weak entrance of Wagnerism or of European symbolist music into Spain. And when some, such as Barbieri, Bretón, or Chapí, attempted to deliver a small dose of modernity, the public remained reticent. It is also true that a work like La tempestad (The tempest) by Chapí, influenced by Wagner, sounded heavier and too solemn for ears accustomed to a more frivolous music. The chica zarzuela carried on the Italian musical culture that the opera and the grande zarzuela had imposed. It is also true (in what can be

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration475 interpreted as a sign of the “democratization” of Spanish lyric theatre) that the zarzuela is less musically demanding. According to some estimates, forty percent of the rhythms are allegro or allegretto, and ninety percent are written in major keys (twenty five percent in C major, without modulations) in the close to 1900 compositions of the zarzuela repertoire; a tendency that reflects a music that would be more comfortable and familiar to inexpert ears. Sung parts exhibit an overwhelming tendency towards intermediate, baritone, and mezzo parts. As a general rule, lyric theatre is not noted for the quality of its singers, nor does it seem to be overly concerned with the “respectable.” In reality, the pure zarzuela was the Trojan horse by which international musical fashions and innovations entered into Spain. It is true that national and folkloric elements never disappeared (the jota seguidilla, Andalusian rhythms), but there was a complete permeability to European music. The grande zarzuela had allowed itself to become influenced by Germanic rhythms: the waltz (starting in 1843), and the polka (or polonesa), in 1848, as in Robinsón, by the great Barbieri. The chica zarzuela systematized the mechanism, with the mazurka (as in Gran Vía, for example) and, above all, beginning in 1900, with English or America rhythms: the cakewalk (between 1903 and 1910); the one-step, two-step, fox-trot, shimmy, and the charleston — continuing up until the twenties. Even jazz appears, as in the 1917 Me llaman la presumida (They call me the presumptuous one) by Francisco Ramos de Castro y Anselmo and featuring music by Francisco Alonso (Me llaman la presumida would be the first to use jazz). Tropical rhythms break on to the scene as well, beginning with the appareance in 1905 of the machicha, synonymous with licentiousness and voluptuousness, as in Luis Foglietti’s La vida alegre (The happy life), tango (Menegilda’s La Gran Vía is famous, as is “el tango de los lunares” [The moons’ tango] in El género ínfimo [The infamous genre], in 1901) which will be confused with the Argentine tango so fashionable in the twenties and thirties, as well as the bolero, rumba, guajira, son, and habanera — which had already appeared in the 1850s (in Marina, for example), and would return between 1910 and 1920 (in the famous “Ay va…” of La corte de Faraón). In time, theatre works by “national” lyric theatre become mixtures of extremely varied rhythms. The recipe for achieving a popular work, given by the magazine Comedias y comediantas (August 1910), was the following: “Two drops of Garrotín, four of Machicha, three grams of Cake-walk, fifty milligrams of erotic cuplé, and a half dozen georgeous soprano voices.” The cuplé (or “couplet” as it was called for a long time, to signal its French origins) prolongs the custom of alternating national music and music from the rest of the world. La Goya even sings Portuguese fados. The most striking example of foreign product assimilation is the chotis which, before going on to become emblematic of Madrid culture, was a German polka that took root in Italy, France, and England with the curious name of “Scottish.” The cuplé would be the receptacle for all imported musical modernities, assimilating them immediately. Spanish musical history could just as well be the history of a permanent, and ultimately harmonious, mixing. However, a few stubborn misnomers remain regarding the dramatic literature of this “national” theatre. In privileging the “popular” atmosphere of ghettos and domestic scenes of the street and family, commercial Spanish theatre (and to a large extent, serious “theatre”) became bogged-down in a lasting image of popularly held Spanishness, of “genuine,” autochthonous and indigenous culture, or as Peña y Goñi would have it, the embodiment of “the nation’s soul.” At first glance, suspicions may be aroused that this frenetic search for local color and the picturesque, these parades of social or provincial “types,” would present themselves as being the

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true representation of the national reality. By definition, the concept of “type” on which the entire theatrical construct of the Restoration was constructed is at odds with realism. The immense corpus of sainetes and librettos would have to be analyzed in order to see precisely to what extent it is only a deforming of reality, a disguise, an omission, an idealization, and a showcase for an ideological project without social responsibility. To admit that Spanish theatrical literature is not realist could be the first step in its rehabilitation as literature (which it is) and, eventually, as documents of cultural history (if interpreted with caution). In the second place, a very important part of dramatic Spanish literature is the result of actively plundering European literature, particularly French literature. In this aspect, the dignified grande zarzuela once again provides an example. It is admitted that three-fourths of zarzuela librettos are mere copies. One example: Los diamantes de la corona (The crown’s diamonds) comes directly from Les Diamants de la couronne, by Eugène Scribe, music by Daniel-François Auber; the librettist, Francisco Camprodón, did not even bother to change the title. The anecdote relating Barbieri’s stay in Paris is pertinent here and not without irony. Invited by the empress Eugenia de Montijo to put on a zarzuela spectacle, the great composer soon realized that the librettists of the selected works (Ventura de la Vega, Camprodón) had done no more than copy French originals. As a result, no Spanish zarzuela appeared in Paris. In order to feed cultural demand, between 1867 and 1930 the género chico copied the repertoire of “Boulevard,” “Vaudeville,” of the European comic opera, etc. In 1998, the Universidad de Córdoba attempted to quantify the phenomenon of translations from French to Spanish. Between 1830 and 1930, 368 Spanish translators have been identified, along with 1240 translated works of 369 French authors (Cobos Castro 1998) — all in all, not a bad showing. If one adds works from Belgium (Maurice Maeterlinck, Henry Crommelinck), English language authors (Shakespeare, George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, etc.), Germany (Hermann Sudermann, Gerhart Hauptmann, etc.) Italian (Gabriele d’Annunzio, Roberto Bracco, Marco Prada, Luigi Pirandello, etc.), Scandinavia (Henrik Ibsen, August Strindberg, Bjørnstjerne Bjørnsson), Russia (Nikolai Evreinov, Leonid Andreïev) and even Japan, it can be understood that Spanish theatre was quite permeable to foreign influence. In reality this number must be infinitely inferior to the reality, not so much because of the forgotten texts and authors, but because it only takes into account spoken theatre (failing to account for lyric theatre) and because it is difficult, perhaps impossible, to tabulate the hundreds or thousands of works that either fail to mention that they are “translations,” or do not cite the author being translated. In order to simplify, there are two ways to utilize a foreign work: either the foreign author and/or title appears, or these names are absent. In the first case, the diversity of the denominations is enough to understand that the relationship to the original can vary greatly. Next to the word “translation” (the most honest, but necessarily the one that demands the greatest fidelity), we find: “adaptation,” “arranged,” “imitated from the French,” “written onto the thought of a foreign work,” “on an original idea by…,” based on…,” which implies a complete flexibility in the relationship to the original text that does not even merit copyright payments. The majority of the great names in dramatic literature throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth century are active “translators”: Ventura de la Vega (76 official translations), Manuel Bretón de los Herrero (62), Juan E. Hartzenbush (16), Manuel Tamayo y Baus (33), Vital Aza, Tomás Luceño and, later, Antonio Paso, Abati, Eduardo Marquina, Juan José Cadenas (39, officially). In reality, everyone translates a little or a great deal, well or poorly, including the great figures — Miguel de Unamuno, Valle-Inclán, Marquina who

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration477 plagiarizes Carlo Goldoni, Manuel Machado, and Luis de Oteyza who steals Rostand’s L’Aiglon (The eagle) in 1920 all take from other works. The most widely translated French playwrights are evidently Scribe (translated 148 times), Alexandre Dumas (80), Edmond Rostand, Victor Hugo (31), and the infinite string of “Bulevar” authors: Émile Augier, Tristan Bernard, Robert De Flers, Gaston A. de Caillavet, Hennequin, whom Luceño, Paso, Abati, and many others found to be a goldmine of ideas (La Correspondencia, April 1920), Francis de Croisset, Eugène Brieux (50 translated works from 1890 to 1905), Victorien Sardou, Henri Lavedan, Georges Courteline, and a very lengthy etcetera. As Manuel Martínez Espada comments in 1900: “We are not enough for ourselves: we need foreigners […] and with regards to dramatic literature from beyond the Pyrenees — we await it all” (1900, 65). It would appear that between the end of the nineteenth century and 1936, it was an established habit among Spanish authors and directors to take trips to Paris and to return “with the trunk full of manuscripts” (Martínez Espada 1900, 65). The number of plagiarized works making no reference to the original is difficult to ascertain, but based on what can be seen, it was a common practice. The Spanish talent for picturesque terms invents the word fusilar (to shoot, often by firing squad) to describe the audacity of those who draw from other texts without citing these sources. The librettists of the grande zarzuela are consummate fusileros: Camprodón, Ventura de la Vega, Luis Mariano de Larra, Eusebio Blasco, Mariano Pina Domínguez. There is no lack of anecdotes in the press denouncing such practices or criticizing some indelicate author caught in the act. “Frequently, and with an almost unbelievable audacity, translated works are released, credited on posters and on the cover of the books, as original” (Martínez Espada 1900, 66–67). Emilio Tintorer (in 1900), Francisco Curet (in 1917) and Enrique de Mesa (in 1922) took on this ill-fated obsession, though to no avail, as it was a common habit that did not violate any sort of deontological code, and moreover, which was lucrative: “a run-of-the-mill translator importing a burp from over the Pyrenees makes more money than he or she knows what to do with” (Le Temps Moderne, 25 April 1894). One must assume that, in the majority of cases, the plagiarism went unnoticed: Who could possibly realize that Cipriano Rivas Cherif ’s 1930 Pitusa was a rip-off of Brieux’s Blanquette, which had premiered forty years earlier in France? It is known that company directors, even prestigious ones such as Ceferino Palencia, translated during their tours in the provinces without fear of punishment. In the Paralelo, some theatres specialized in works directly imported from the French: pamphlets, pantomimes, episodes from the history of France, novels by Hugo, and even the Dreyfus Affair. This vast body of “translated” (to simplify these practices) works has never been studied. It is a pity. Aside from a few (very scarce) academic and very meticulous translations (such as the translation of the Maeterlinck’s theatre by María Lejárraga, the wife of Gregorio Martínez Sierra — though such examples are rare), the re-use of foreign texts obeys criteria which at times might appear eccentric. In many cases, the foreign work only served as a pretext, as a point of departure, simply because the Spanish author liked the “idea.” In the majority of cases, the translation consisted of arriving at a Hispanic and Spanish equivalent. The seriousness of the plagiary did not have to do with errors of translation or double meanings (mastery of the foreign tongue was not a common virtue), nor even that certain scenes or retorts were cut out, but that Spanish authors took it upon themselves to approximate the foreign work to moral structures and norms which were supposedly in keeping with the Spanish mentality: they trimmed, polished, smoothed out roughnesses, re-wrote as they pleased, took out whatever seemed to them to be daring, erotic, or inappropriate from a political point of view. The “translation” by Manuel Machado and Luis de

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Oteyza of L’Aiglon (1900) is a beautiful example of embarrassing manipulation where, apart from the cuts, all political references which give Rostand’s work its meaning have been removed. This is particularly clear where women and matrimonial or amorous morals are concerned. In Spain, the adulteresses (so common on the French bulevar) always return to the fold and to the values of the home. “Translation” practices show the active role the theatre had in the preservation of a moral and ideological order. It is therefore not surprising that the “respectable” person did not see the “modernity” or the audacity that they were promised, and instead had the sensation of listening to a typical Spanish work. One of the aspects of the “crisis of theatre,” and of the renovation (difficult, if not impossible) of Spanish theatre, has a great deal to do with these practices which hinder an authentic aesthetic alternative.

Ambiguous function of music and jokes Certain nuances of the panorama described up to this point and their critical aspects must be brought out. The rich gamut of low género chico, the lyric theatre, and song represent an immense heritage, valuable not only as a historical and social document, but also for its artistic and even aesthetic facets. The género chico boasted an immense success during the entire Restoration; this can only be due to its enduring solidity. It embodied the identitarian culture of several “wide” levels of society — much as the cuplé was later both a national culture and a truly popular culture (consumed, encouraged, recuperated, assimilated, and resuscitated by the working-class levels of society even though the people were neither its authors nor its first receivers). These works undoubtedly represent a massive form of a modern, urban culture, closely connected to the country’s industrialization, demographic changes, migration towards the large cities, etc. This massive acculturation also explains the interest of dominant groups in controlling and monitoring such an important sector and attempting to use it according to its interests. The incessant attacks against a “run-of-the-mill,” “cheap,” and even “vile” stage culture, the moral and artistic indignation of many intellectuals or virtuous moral defenders with frivolous works full of eroticism, or with a “beastly” audience that “grunts,” “roars,” and “howls” like a “wild animal in heat” must be taken with a grain of salt. This is not to say that all of these works were artistic jewels, or that the public was not uncultured and violent in its behavior, but one must always keep in mind that the press and the critics pertain to a small minority of conservative (at the very least) bourgeois clouded by their own moral and political preoccupations, and do not offer an objective portrayal of the theatre at the time. Rehabilitating this heritage is a pressing task, not only because it is of cultural worth or because it was decisively successful and impacting, but because it possesses effective and valuable theatrical elements and mechanisms. It would be useful, for example, to analyze the visual dimension of the género chico — the set, the scenography, the lights, the trick photos, the relationship between the audience and the images shown. It is important to understand, for example, why a work like Los sobrinos del capitán Grant (The nephews of Captain Grant, 1877) by Miguel Ramos Carrión, with music by Manuel Fernández Caballero, was able to last up until the fifties and sixties as a show for children during Easter holidays (or on the Christian feast day of the Epiphany [January 6], according to some accounts). In its original productions this zarzuela must have

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration479 seemed an almost magical spectacle, like a fairytale, with its eighteen frames, twenty-two sets, more than three hundred costumes and props, with erupting volcanoes, divers in the sea depths, etc. — an authentic technical triumph for its time. Certainly, not all representations enjoyed the production means employed in Los sobrinos del capitán Grant, and we know that many zarzuelas were put on in modest, even makeshift situations, but the concept of “total spectacle,” which would become so important with Wagner, is already within the system of the zarzuela. And this is another aspect which is almost completely forgotten by critics. The very peculiar reception by the audiences of the time is also worth analyzing, as are their reactions and even their participation in the spectacle itself: the chico theatre contributed to create, although only partially or symbolically, the emergence of a sense of community, of group solidarity — even in the foot stamping and applause. Social cohesion, the “choral mass” as Chispero describes it, begins with the congregation on common ground by individuals united by similar interests. Finally, studying the presence of bodies (feminine, of course) on stage, as an important document of collective sensibility and of national Eros would be a worthwhile endeavor. The term “sicalipsis,” used to condemn eroticism in theatre, is nothing more than the pejorative designation of an expression of Spanish eros that in theatre revealed its needs and aspirations in the context of a repressive society. And, contrary to cliché, the aesthetic aspect is worth rehabilitating: one should not forget that the body of the dancer, labeled lascivious and pornographic, became the instrument of the scenic vanguard throughout Europe in the years between 1910 and 1920, with dancers such as Pastora Imperio, Amalia Isaura, or Argentina (it is also true that this was the case in Paris, London, and New York — to a greater extent than in Spain — where these stars were accepted among the vanguard). The two basic, or most evident, pillars that assure the success of the formulas of the género chico are its music and its jokes. It is without doubt that the vast majority of Spanish composers between 1850 and 1936 were authentic professionals with an excellent theoretical and practical formation, capable, it must be noted, of writing (very quickly, this is certainly the case) happy, inspired, and funny music from a host of sources — classical as well as folkloric, popular, national, and foreign. Spanish lyric theatre owes much to the successive generations of musicians of excellent quality that worked for the zarzuela because it is what guaranteed them their pay, although they dreamed of its being appreciated like the classic composers. Apart from Barbieri (the genius), Chapí, and some others, they do not receive the critical treatment they deserve. Their use of vocal parts and orchestra (particularly the role played by the woodwinds and brass — trumpets and bugles — until 1900 or, in the twenties and thirties, the stringed instruments) intensely conditions that reception, and therefore, the cultural and even ideological acceptance of their work. With the cuplé and the Spanish song, it is evident that music plays a decisive role, undoubtedly superior to its lyrics, in the formation of a national culture. One has to admit, echoing Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, that the song is as noble a genre as any other, and that certain songs are masterpieces, even from an aesthetic point of view. The joke, or retruécano (pun) as it is known, has received bad press among the elite and the renovators who harangue against such “digestive laughter” and the conformism that the comic element seems to imply. It is true that certain works are not bereft of inane wordplay or the mechanical repetition of cuchufletas and chirigotas (mockeries). Las Leandras, like so many other works of the twenties and thirties, is nothing more than a shower of jokes and “witticisms,” without the least concern for verisimilitude or intrigue. The most bothersome aspect of

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this type of humor is the mechanics of the laughter which consolidates or foments — through verbal pleasure and the community of the merry makers — retrograde or reactionary ideologies. Laughter is one of the most formidable instruments of persuasion for dominant groups. As Julia Csergo argues, laughter “produces social links” (2001, 160). To laugh at something, or against something, is to situate oneself in the hierarchy of good and bad. As Arniches affirms: “The jest […] heals and purifies: it punishes the stupid, it detains the impudent, frightens the ignorant, and warns the discreet. […] The jest entertains and corrects” (quoted in Ramos 1966, 144). The barman in Cádiz, an extremely funny local, is the one who “explains” the Constitution according to his own interpretation, defends his friends, and attacks the “evil” (which here is a clerical Basque); the ideological impact is clear, but his jokes have an infinite humor. In the same vein, it is difficult to not find oneself laughing at the truculent outbursts in certain works by Muñoz Seca, in the La venganza de don Mendo (Don Mendo’s vengeance), for example, despite the author’s furiously reactionary, and later anti-republican, posture. This in turn raises another complex problematic: to what extent does the enjoyment of certain jokes, music, or songs of the most alienating Francoism imply, in terms of reception, a blind adhesion to the values of the work. To what extent does the pleasure of such verbal and musical practice deactivate the political message, and thereby remain merely pleasurable? It is likely that the consumer would know how to discriminate and would not be as stupid as he or she is made out to be. Only the most cantankerous would refuse to recognize that the género chico reconciled the Spanish with their language. Jokes, wordplay, and plays on regional differences and accents are synonymous with verbal agility, flexibility, inventiveness, and substance. Even in the most mechanical pieces, the género chico emphasizes language as a feast, as a shared pleasure. This stage tradition, already present in the light-hearted tonadilla, continues in the grande zarzuela and this is its big difference from opera. Even in El barberillo de Lavapiés (The barber from Lavapiés, by Mariano de Larra and with music by Barbieri) there are sung parts, whether by Lamparilla or in the Madrid slang expressed by the duchess, which are literary and musical jewels. The dialogues and sung parts in La Verbena de la Paloma is another wonder. Any sainete by Arniches overflows with happiness and delightful discovery. In the zarzuela, as in the sainete, it is necessary to hear what is being said. The diction must be careful, at the very least in order to avoid missing the string of jokes. The willingness of the listener is implied — a verbal and conceptual agility which greatly contributes to general complicity — not to mention memory, which is known to be a particular trait of the spectators of the day. When original texts by Scribe, who was so plagiarized in Spain, are compared with the later “translations” or “arrangements,” there is not the slightest doubt that the Spanish text is generally infinitely more ingenious and alive. Rehabilitating the dramatic literature of the chico heritage is not limited to a rehabilitation of the comic as the “noble” expression of the theatre, particularly when the genres known as “serious” are themselves mediocre. It must be admitted that the género chico can offer daring and even modern perspectives. In his 1892 induction speech to the Real Academia Española, Barbieri expounded on “La música en la lengua española” (The music in the Spanish language), a text which is still surprisingly pertinent, with these classic verses from Tomás de Iriarte: “Música y Poesía / En una misma lira tocaremos” (Music and Poetry / In the same lyre we shall play). In the verses of certain works, already present in some of the earliest like La canción de la Lola (Lola’s song), there are games and verbal juggling that confer a dynamic and lively dimension to this “poetry” — in frank contrast with the state of the official poetry of the age. Rhymes and

“Popular” spectacles in Spain during the Restoration481 acrobatic enjambment, audacious rhythmic alternation (the decasyllables of La Verbena de la Paloma and the pentasyllables of the La Marcha de Cádiz, for example), strange meters (which Modernism would rediscover), and daring images are all present in these works. The jokes, and even the nonsense rhyme, participate in this language and in this playful and expressive culture where “popular” does not clash with inventiveness or virtuosity. Rubén Darío already expressed this in his prologue to Cantos de vida y esperanza (Songs of life and hope, 1905): “As regards modern free verse […], is it not truly exemplary that in this land of Quevedos and Góngoras the only renovators of the lyric instrument, the only liberators of rhythm, have been the poets of Madrid Cómico and the librettists of the género chico?” (1976, 20). Spanish short theatre, with or without music, was the heritage designed by socially dominant classes. Yet it cannot be debated that many of its textual, scenic, and musical ingredients were recuperated by working-class social groups. Laughter, language, and music are not the property of one class, though these classes can manipulate them according to their particular interests. This history of the Spanish song, even in times of the most oppressive Francoism, or in our industrialized and mechanized era, prolongs and confirms this observation. Endeavors to renovate theatre and literature, beginning in 1900, obscured by a bourgeois and vulgar appropriation of the national stage, could not and did not want to see the fertile elements contained in some of the zarzuelas and sainetes (with the notable exception of Valle-Inclán, who gathered a great deal from his assiduous assistance at the Apolo and in his reading of Arniches). They rejected the notion of laughter as an active cultural mechanism, and were deaf to sounds which for them seemed synonymous to brass band party music. Incapable of seeing the authentic merits present within this heritage, they settled back into the dreamy universes of irises and swans which though fertile for poetry, were awful for theatre. The highly cultivated and erudite Barbieri was right when he declared, plagiarizing Boileau: “All genres are good, except for the boring ones” (quoted in Casares 1994, 219).

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula David Viñas Piquer The concept of the bestseller occupies an established position in the structure of the literary field, a position which manifested itself around 1895, when Harry Thurston Peck, editor of the magazine The bookman, began to publish lists of best-selling books in various North American cities. Following The bookman’s lead, in 1912 a list of best-sellers was published in the Publishers weekly magazine for the first time, and on 9 April 1942 the New York times published its own list. In France, where it was soon understood that “l’annonce du succès développe le succès” (declaration of success increases success), L’Express magazine was the first to create the bestseller list in April 1955 (Rouvillois 2011, 155). In Spain it was not until the mid-sixties when the Instituto Nacional del Libro (National Institute of the Book) compiled lists of sales drawn from information gathered from booksellers throughout the whole country, lists which were published monthly in the El libro español (The Spanish book) magazine (Vila-Sanjuán 2011, 35). Thanks to Harry Thurston Peck’s experiment — which, significantly, coincided with the earliest studies on the psychology of collective behavior, such as the research done by Gustave Le Bon (2005) — the term bestseller started to put down strong roots in the publishing world in the early years of the twentieth century, to the point that, in 1922, in an interesting article entitled “The bestseller problem,” A. Wyatt Tilby (Edinburgh review, July 1922, 88–98) thought it necessary to establish distinctions within the phenomenon itself. In his analysis, Wyatt Tilby proposes a distinction between a bestseller and a steady seller. The first term refers to works that get on the bestseller lists with impressive sales results and remain there for several weeks or months — though very rarely for years — whereas the second term refers to works which are no longer on the bestseller lists, but are still regular sellers. The term long sellers should be included to round off this terminology: these are books that, while they do not make the bestseller lists, do remain on sale for a long time, probably because they have acquired the status of classics. Terminological distinctions aside, it is clear that after the editor Harry T. Peck decided to publish the list of best-selling books, a new measure of success opened up within the literary field: becoming a bestseller. Obviously, there have always been works that are more widely sold or read than others, but the status of bestseller — massive sales and vast numbers of readers — is only achievable in the context of mass culture. To describe works that belong to periods prior to the development of such a society as bestsellers is a glaring anachronism; an anachronism that is further exacerbated when discussing works written before the advent of the printing press in the fifteenth century, when all books were hand-written and the number of copies in circulation was necessarily very limited. Even after the printing press, there is a key factor to take into account. When it is said, for instance, that Don Quixote was widely read in the seventeenth century, and that it was translated into many languages, it should not be forgotten that this was a period in which the illiteracy rate was very high, and there were in fact very few people (and certainly not a mass) who could read either Don Quixote or any other work. Within these parameters, clearly Don Quixote was a success compared to other novels of the time, but the parameters within which the bestseller phenomenon develops are very different, because a huge potential readership comes into play, and in a context in which books can be distributed rapidly and in doi 10.1075/chlel.29.39vin © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula483 large quantities, and on an international scale. Strictly speaking, it is only in the second half of the twentieth century that these conditions exist and they are consolidated at the dawn of the twenty-first century, at which point we can already talk about genuine megasellers such as the Da Vinci code, or sagas such as Harry Potter and Twilight. Thus, it is convenient to be rigorous in this point or at least to consider, as Fréderic Rouvillois argues, that it is one thing to talk about the bestseller phenomenon in absolute terms and that it is another to do so in relative terms. The first option obliges us to recognize that “the history of the bestseller is a short one, inseparable from a triumphant modernity and mass literacy,” whereas the second option, less strict, allows us a larger perspective on the history of successful works (Rouvillois 2011, 32). We could probably talk about a pre-history of the bestseller if we take into account works from the past which, leaving aside their real sales figures, were reprinted many times and achieved a certain level of international success. This happened with — for example — Erasmus’s Defence of folly, More’s Utopia, or Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel. I, on the other hand, defend the idea that the history of the bestseller is necessarily a recent one. The word bestseller itself began to be used only at the end of the nineteenth century, and I would argue that it is only in a metaphorical sense that we can use it to describe earlier literary works. Moreover, all indications point to the fact that this mass phenomenon can only take place when works are available to mass consumption under the condition of being written in widely spoken languages. Translations can of course make any work available worldwide, but it is more usual that a work develops into a bestseller among its natural readers: those who read the book in the language in which it was originally written. The translation of the work into other languages comes subsequently, in order to widen its commercial scope. When analyzing the specific case of the bestseller phenomenon in the Iberian Peninsula, these considerations are of paramount importance. It is easy to suppose that a work written in Spanish or Portuguese has greater potential to become a bestseller than a work written in Catalan, Galician, or Basque, all languages with fewer speakers and, as is well known, languages that have struggled for survival and been forced to adapt to subordination throughout their history (González-Millán 2000). Today, precisely because they exist at a time of mass culture and globalization, each of the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula has its own bestsellers, but it is obvious that some of these literatures have a certain advantage over others, and that advantage has even determined both the particular type of bestseller that has emerged in each case, and the timeframe in which this phenomenon has been able to develop. However, some critics believe that among a number of Catalan, Galician, and Basque writers there is an unresolved contradiction between, on the one hand, the use of a nationalistic expression through which some signs of collective identity are shown, and on the other, a necessary adaptation to a modern aesthetic (Juristo 2005, 63). There is no denying a certain tone of nationalist protest in some works in Catalan, Galician, and Basque literature; however, this claim of cultural difference is balanced with an increasingly homogenized society, and themes of more general interest that are easier to fit into the bestseller profile have prevailed. Take, for example, the case of Basque literature. It is significant that in his Historia de la literatura vasca (History of Basque literature), referring only to the principal works of the last decade of the twentieth century, Iñaki Aldekoa implicitly alludes to the phenomenon of the bestseller, stating: “perhaps the emergence of a consumer literature — a phenomenon unknown in the Basque literary field, in contrast to other literatures of our environment — is one of the most

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notable developments at the end of this century” (Aldekoa 2004, 259). According to Aldekoa, the work that seems to have first opened the door to consumer literature is Kutsidazu bidea, Ixabel (Show me the way, Isabel), written by Joxean Sagastizabal and published in 1993. The comic tone of this work, which is clearly reflected in the title of the Spanish translation, Monte arriba ¡los vascos! (Up the mountain, the Basques!), has the salutary effect of clearing up any kind of political or ideological tension and invoking an ironic perspective which extends to supposed idiosyncratic values. The protagonist in the novel recounts his experience of living with an eccentric family in a country house located in a village in rural Guipúzcoa, and his initial sensation as having reached the the heart of darkness in the Basque countryside. He has grown up in the city — “in the pure and simple asphalt (as God intended)” — and wants to spend the summer in the mountains, among the most “authentic” Basques, the “natives,” so as to learn the Basque language, a task that will require tremendous effort and result in his forehead becoming lined with “the wrinkles of linguistic concentration.” The contrast between the customs and manners of the city life that he represents and the customs of country people, in addition to some linguistic games and to the “modern” twist which ensures a constant presence of referents to mass culture, gives rise time and again to comic effects, ceding the way to an original recreation of the well-worn topics of civilization and barbarism, albeit with a dose of eroticism, centred around the figure of Isabel — who is presented as “a flower among thorns” — which now and again takes the story in other directions. The novel is short, agile, uncomplicated, and humorous, turning on the story of a love affair that makes an initially hostile environment less and less so for the protagonist. Given this set of ingredients, it is easy to see why the novel has been so successful. No wonder that Joseba Gabilondo recognizes in Sagastizabal’s work the merit of finding a new space for Basque literature; although he writes in Basque, he avoids nationalist discourse and is thus able to represent Basque life in another way, through a work which is both global and local (Gabilondo 1999, 23). Using parody, Sagastizabal invites the Basques to a kind of self-analysis, and above all, invites them to laugh at themselves in the mirror, a laugh generated by an intelligent introspection and the ability to find humor in intimate matters. Were someone on the outside to laugh at the same thing, it would no doubt be offensive, but when an outsider who knows the issues involved approaches Basque life in this way, laughter metamorphoses into complicity. The laughter is in the background, non-transferable, perhaps even a proud laughter. But only marginally unique, because of course humor knows no boundaries and Sagastizabal’s work has reached not only readers interested in Basque culture, but many others, to the extent that the novel is very close to being an example of what constitutes a bestseller, although both its setting and themes inevitably give it a local flavor which precludes its achieving a truly mass readership. A similar dynamic is at play with the most published text in the history of Galician literature, Memorias dun neno labrego (Memoirs of a peasant boy) by Xosé Neira Vilas. This novel, published in 1961, became required reading among many young Galicians, a fact which explains its enormous sales figures. Here too, local idiosyncrasy is dominant, becoming the most charming element of the story. The work is set in postwar rural Galicia and seeks to chronicle what everyday life was like for many Galician children at the time. It would seem logical that readers of this work would be either those who are familiar with these circumstances and can readily identify with the protagonist, or readers who, for whatever reason, may have a particular interest in that period of Galician history. But these are not the only readers: the novel has in fact been translated into many languages — Spanish, English, Chinese, German, Bulgarian, Russian, etc. — which means

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula485 that it has found a readership beyond Galicia; however, it was the readers of Galician literature who created this best-selling work and then passed it on to the world, which is how the diffusion of literature usually works. The combination of the local setting of the novel and recognizable features of the picaresque, together with the special charm of the child recounting his fortunes and adversities, results in a memoir that reveals an early and acute class consciousness that leads the child to rebel against those who obey their parents — but who is finally resigned to his. If we take into account the technical simplicity of the novel, which is in deliberate contrast to the experiments of the members of the so-called New Galician Narrative, it is easy to see why readers of Galician literature decided to turn Memorias dun neno labrego into their own bestseller. In the case of Catalan literature, clearly Mercè Rodoreda acquired a following with La plaça del Diamant (The time of the doves), which was published in 1962, as, in a way, did Llorenç Villalonga with his novel, Bearn o La sala de las muñecas (Bearn or The dolls’ room), first published in Spanish in 1956, and then in its original Catalan version in 1961, but these are works which, despite having been widely read and having become prominent in postwar Catalan literature, are still far from being what becomes, over time, a genuine international bestseller, devoured by readers everywhere. La Plaça del Diamant, Bearn and other works with a history of continued success are better described as long sellers than bestsellers, since it is obvious that in their case a process of canonization has come into play and turned them into classics, meaning that what prompts people to read them has little to do with the reasons people read a bestseller, which happens when a book is in vogue, and often only while it is fashionable. It is clear that in some of the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula, the trajectory to attaining global bestseller status has been a slow one, but they have all finally achieved it. An illustration of this is the case of a work such as Merlín y familia (Merlin and family), by Álvaro Cunqueiro, which was published in 1951 but did not appear in its second edition until 1968, revealing a clear lack of understanding on the part of critics and a poor reception among readers. Later, Cunqueiro became a safe bet for publishers and, as Ricardo Carballo has pointed out, he now enjoys a privileged position in terms of sales. But that was not the case at the outset, as Merlín y familia, owing to its closeness to fantasy and the irony of its style — which is based on anachronistic games and a polyphonic parody of easily identifiable codes, as Xoán González-Millán (1991, 27) observes — was seen as an exercise in pure escapism which at a time of committed literature and the dominance of realistic techniques was not easily forgiven. Cunqueiro followed his own path, a path that led him to depart from that which was local and instead find a connection with European literature, which precipitated a radical change in the landscape of the postwar Galician narrative. Readers came slowly, but they came to stay, and Cunqueiro owed his success to a loyal public that saw in his work not slavish dedication to various fashions or the incorporation of current themes, as was often the case in works of the time, but high quality literary values. In an attempt to sum up some of these values, Ricardo Carballo reflects on why, over time, some of Cunqueiro’s works achieved such success; he states: “Cunqueiro can tell a story. He could surprise with the unexpected, entertain with rich anecdotes, distract and captivate alternately with didactic digressions” (Carballo Calero 1975, 753). He also claims that Cunqueiro’s literature is cathartic; a hallucinogenic drug that transports us to an artificial paradise. Although none of his works fits the label of bestseller, Cunqueiro demonstrated that, beyond the parochial, there other issues of interest to readers that can turn a book into a bestseller, and into an international bestseller, more in keeping with the essence of globalization.

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The first of these issues is linked to the ability to tell a story in such a way that it appeals to a large number of readers. It is clear that the majority of best-selling authors conceive of literary creation more as an effort of the imagination that enables the telling of interesting stories than as an opportunity to showcase their mastery of stylistic resources. Hypertrophy of technique, especially in the first half of the twentieth century, gave way to continuing narrative experimentation, to the detriment of the central story-telling elements of the works; and although the majority of best-selling authors may neither be able nor want to give up the wide range of creative materials that were developed during this phase of experimentation, they try to subordinate those resources to the thematic level, using them in the service of a good story, as it is story that hooks the reader, and produces the so-called “page turning effect.” To achieve this objective, they strategically use material from different literary genres. Characteristic features of the detective novel, Gothic novel, historical novel, the Bildungsroman, adventure novel, science fiction novel, fantasy novel, romance novel, erotic novel, and the lyric novel crop up time and again in bestsellers and this shows that above all it is these genres, some of which are associated with the earliest forms of mass literature, which are most often used as reference models by authors of such works. It also shows that, just as happens with some of the classics that are deemed unclassifiable, such as The divine comedy or Don Quixote, the bestseller requires us to rethink the traditional notion of literary genre as something that can simply be classified by category, and to substitute the idea of belonging to a genre with the idea of participating in a genre. This substitution makes it easier to understand the links that are constantly being established between works that are considered bestsellers and the different literary genres, without having to consider, sometimes rather absurdly, to which particular genre the work under analysis belongs. Noting in which genre each work participates, and what generic features are recreated at each moment, is enough to enable us to detect where the principal charm of the work lies. To turn to one of the most famous international bestsellers, The name of the rose, we can see that to situate the novel in terms of literary genre is futile, as Umberto Eco draws from different generic sources without scrupulously adhering to the specific requirements of any single one. It is most frequently thought that the work swings principally between the historical novel and the detective novel, but it is obvious that it also draws heavily on the Gothic novel, and there are those who consider it to be mostly a Bildungsroman, while others, no doubt thinking of the heavy theological load that runs through its pages, call it a novel of ideas. When there are so many possibilities, rather than trying to pigeonhole a work into a specific genre, it seems more appropriate to recognize that it does not belong to any one genre, but that it participates in several, which is, as stated earlier, usually true of most bestsellers. The fact that a literary work can exist not as just another case of generic reduplication (clearly attached to a specific genre), but rather as a cocktail, taking and mixing elements of interest from here and there, shows that it is not always necessary to establish generic relationships between the work being created and other works or genres already in existence in terms of a supposed respect for, or violation of, the rules set in poetics. Instead, works can be created through a liberal use of various elements in literary tradition that are used as building materials for the construction of new literary edifices, as the Russian formalists might put it. By this process, it is possible to create works that have enormous popular potential, especially if they have borrowed well-known generic features. Each genre referred to lends a specific type of material, but the main strategy lies in the skilful combination of various materials. This is easy to say, of course,

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula487 but not so easy to execute: the genres in literary tradition are reference models and the possible combinations are doubtless infinite, so finding the most efficient way of combining them is no easy task. Furthermore, reductionist readings singling out each literary genre are always possible. But it is obvious that the magic of the bestseller, its seductive power, rests in an intelligent mix of genres whose components should not be separated out, because in doing so the efficiency of the whole is lost. One can have any opinion of bestsellers, but it is impossible to deny that these works are keeping literary tradition very much alive. In the context of the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula, it is clear that the moment at which the mixing of features from preceding literary genres that have been identified as the principal reference models used by bestselling authors began to grow, was also the very moment at which real blockbusters began to emerge. When these works are compared with one another, it is not always obvious what the similarities are, but it is not difficult to see that they all conform to an ideal model that has been forged in the collective imagination with the appearance of the big international bestsellers; works which have made their mark upon readers, and which, over time, have contributed to shaping an archetype to which all bestsellers belong, to a greater or lesser extent. And it is important to emphasize this “greater or lesser extent”: there are archetypal bestsellers, novels which have all, or almost all, the essential ingredients that we recognize as the hallmark of this type of work, and there are also bestsellers which contain only some of these ingredients. The only realistic way to become familiar with this archetype is through theoretical reconstruction. This is a model in which there are no textual absolutes to be found, as bestsellers are forged from the features of various previous bestsellers, from works which, owing to their outstanding international success, have been considered paradigmatic of this literary phenomenon. The reader’s mind is the only space that can house a clear picture of this ideal archetype, just as these are the readers who, on the basis of the bestsellers they have read, are capable of defining the characteristics of this type of work. If this ideal archetype could be reconstructed, we would no doubt discover that one of its essential features is the mixture of features from certain literary genres that have preceded it (the detective, Gothic, historical novel, etc.), as mentioned above. It is therefore important to consider when the various literatures of the Iberian Peninsula began to show a serious interest in incorporating these features; the first step leading to the mixing of genres and which, in terms of sales, generates excellent results, as is proven by bestsellers such as La sombra del viento (The shadow of the wind) or La catedral del mar (The cathedral of the sea), in which the essential features of the historical novel coexist alongside Gothic ingredients, a significant dose of adventure action, the typical strategies common in detective novels, and even an interesting erotic contribution, sometimes combined with a sentimental romance genre. In Catalan literature, it could be argued that the prolific writer Manuel de Pedrolo paved the way with Mecanoscrit del segon origen (Second origin typescript), a work published in 1974 and which, in its layout, mixed genres such as adventure and science fiction, and that the process culminated in works such as Albert Sánchez Piñol’s La pell freda (Cold skin), a genuine tribute to the fantasy novel in the mold of Lovecraft, that incorporates a large dose of adventure and interesting anthropological reflections. A similar process is visible in Basque literature. Following in the footsteps of Joxean Sagastizabal’s Monte arriba, ¡los vascos!, highly successful authors such as Jon Arretxe and Jasone Osoro led the way in so-called consumer literature, with works which, far from having local aspirations, were directly linked with literary tradition through the use of genres that had had the best reception among readers in mass societies. Jon Arretxe, for example,

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writes thrillers, with works like Fatum (2008), Shahmarán (2009) and La calle de los ángeles (The street of angels, 2010), although he has at times also sought to combine detective writing with a great deal of comedy in works such as Manila konexioa (Manila connection, 2003) and Kleopatra (2005). There is also Jasone Osoro, one of the most widely read writers in Basque culture since the overwhelming success of her book of stories Tetazioak (Temptations), published in 1998, and her continuing success with a book of stories and poems entitled Korapiloak (Naked), which was awarded the Basque Silver Prize for the best-selling work in the Basque language at the Book Day in Bilbao in 2001. She also achieved success with her novel, Greta, published in 2003, which tells the story of Óscar, a boy abandoned by his mother, brought up by his grandmother, and unable to maintain a relationship with his girlfriend because she is in love with a mannequin. The main theme in Jasone Osoro’s works, especially when you consider Korapiloak, is linked to the erotic genre because sex and eroticism are dominant, with forays into voyeurism, fetishism, prostitution, incest, and so on, making it easy to see where the appeal comes from for so many readers, though there are of course also some readers who appreciate her works for their literary merit. In the case of Galician literature, a novel as successful as A praia dos afogados (Death on a Galician shore), by Domingo Villar, published in 2009, is written in the style of the best detective novels, the appeal of which has endured since the time of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, and which has since undergone significant revivals, as in the work of the Swede Henning Mankell, who is one of the most widely imitated writers in the genre. Moreover, these writers, creating bestsellers in languages that are considered peripheral, demonstrate that it is possible to have universal appeal without sacrificing roots, which is the tribute paid to Kirmen Uribe upon publication of his novel Bilbao-NewYork-Bilbao by the prestigious Harvard book review, which awarded the novel the National Prize for Fiction in 2009. This a novel which in its original Basque edition managed to sell 8,000 copies, not an inconsiderable figure for a community of readers that the professor and critic Jon Kortazar has estimated at about 250,000 people. Kirmen Uribe achieved this success through an ingenious combination of generic features, but also by way of autofiction, which is perhaps why Bilbao-NewYork-Bilbao ultimately did not fit the image of the traditional bestseller, which is always associated with the use of literary genres that have the widest appeal in mass society. It is authors whose works openly use these genres that have the ability to turn themselves into genuine bestselling writers. It is useful to make a distinction between what it means to be a widely read author and a “massively read” author. The two are not exactly the same. Strictly speaking, only in the case of the second are we in bestseller territory. For example, as mentioned earlier, in the case of Galician literature, there are authors such as Álvaro Cunqueiro, who boast a large and loyal readership, but who ultimately do not fit the profile of a bestselling author, and the same is true of the author most beholden to Cunqueiro — Manuel Rivas. Many have read Un million de vacas (A million cows), Los libros arden mal (Books burn badly), and other works by Rivas, perhaps prompted to do so by the prizes that some of his works have won — En salvaxe compaña (In the company of savages) won the Galician Critics’ Prize in 1994 and Que me queres, amor? (You love me, darling?) was awarded the National Prize for Literature in 1996, for example. However, the number of readers in this case is not sufficiently large for the author of these works to remain on the bestseller lists for very long. Staying with Galician literature, the same could be said of Suso de Toro and Alfredo Conde, or to change to a different literary field, an author as significant in Basque literature as Bernardo Atxaga, who, particularly since the publication of Obabakoak in 1998, has

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula489 achieved widespread success — which is why Joseba Gabilondo considers him the most global Basque author (Gabilondo 1999, 16) — could not be considered a bestselling author. The situation is exactly the same with José Saramago and António Lobo Antunes in Portuguese literature, both of whom are well known and widely read (the most translated Portuguese writers), but who are equally far from the archetypal image of the bestselling author. The same could be said of writers such as João de Melo and José Cardoso Pires, the latter being the author of O Delfim (The prince), which is considered one of the most important novels in Portuguese literature of the second half of twentieth century, and which flirts with the detective genre with the intention of deconstructing it. Saramago is one of the most successful of Portuguese authors, but it should not be forgotten that he is also a Nobel Prize winner, and thus the reason so many readers are drawn to his work is not the same as the reason that an extraordinary mass of readers is usually drawn to a bestseller. Even so, it should be recognized that his novel, Memorial do Convento (Baltasar and Blimunda, 1982) has mobilized a great many readers both inside and outside Portugal, and its success is surely related to the fact that the work is in the genre of the historical novel and attempts to revisit and rewrite history, a postmodernist gesture that has also inspired several bestsellers of international repute. Before steering away from Portuguese literature, it should be noted that one person who fits the profile of the bestselling author perfectly is the journalist and writer José Rodrigues dos Santos, who has achieved sales of over a million copies with works such as O Codex 632 (Codex 632), A fórmula de Deus (The Einstein enigma) and O sétimo selo (The seventh seal). Baltasar Porcel, Carme Riera, Quim Monzo, Sergi Pàmies, Empar Moliner, Isabel-Clara Simó, Miquel de Palol, or, more recently, David Monteagudo, are all names associated with considerable commercial success in Catalan literature, while others have gone on to become bestsellers, as is the case with Albert Sánchez Piñol’s La pell freda, Emili Teixidor’s Pa negre (Black bread), Jaume Cabré’s Las veus del Pamano (The voices of Pamano), and Ramon Solsona’s L’home de la maleta (The man with the suitcase). However, it is difficult to link those names to the bestselling author category, a term more applicable to Ferran Torrent, who has often exploited crime fiction and, of course, Francesc Miralles — considered the Catalan Dan Brown since the publication in 2007 of his El Quart Reich (The fourth Reich), a literary series starring the journalist-detective Leo Vidal. Martí Gironell also seems to fit this category better, with his combination of the historical novel with the thriller, along with other genres whose features are common in the most successful international bestsellers, in works such as El pont dels jueus (The bridge of the Jews) and L’arqueòleg (The archaeologist). The real blockbusters are not the writers who have achieved one bestseller, but those who have specialized in writing several, as has been the case in Spanish literature with Alberto Vázquez Figueroa, Antonio Gala, Arturo Pérez-Reverte, Matilde Asensi, Julia Navarro, Javier Sierra, and Chufo Llorens. Some of these authors are now genuinely global brands, a door that was opened up to Spanish literature by Vincente Blasco Ibáñez with Los cuatro jinetes del Apocalipsis (The four horsemen of the Apocalypse), a novel which appeared in 1916, and was translated into English in 1918, managing to get into the bestseller list of the Publishers weekly in 1919, and considered by The illustrated London news in 1921 as one of the most widely read books in the world. But surely no one would confuse the success of any of these mentioned authors with the success achieved by the works of Juan Marsé, Antonio Muñoz Molina, Juan José Millás, Almudena Grandes, Enrique Vila Matas, or Javier Marías, for example, just as no one could mix up the postwar success of Corín Tellado or Marcial Lafuente Estefanía, both leading

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representatives of the popular fiction sold on newsstands, with that of an author like José María Gironella, who achieved significant sales with his trilogy about the Civil War: Los cipreses creen en Dios (Cypresses), Un millón de muertos (One million dead) and Ha estallado la paz (Peace after war). Not even an author such as Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, who has sold huge numbers of copies of the series featuring the detective Pepe Carvalho, conforms to the image of the bestselling writer. To minimize confusion it is important to hone in on this point and this requires taking a careful look at each author’s personal literary strategy. For example, María Dueñas has recently published a significant bestseller, El tiempo entre costuras (The seamstress), but it is too early to typecast her as a bestselling author. Javier Cercas is not an author of bestsellers, despite having written Soldados de Salamina (Soldiers of Salamis). By contrast, Carlos Ruíz-Zafón, having written the bestseller in Spanish literature par excellence, La sombra del viento (The shadow of the wind), returned to the literary scene with another bestseller, El juego del ángel (The angel’s game), and in 2011 published El prisionero del cielo (The prisoner of heaven), the third part of the tetralogy promised by the author. Similarly, Ildefonso Falcones, after the overwhelming success of La catedral del mar returned to the bestseller lists with La mano de Fátima (The hand of Fátima). And so, while one swallow does not make a summer, sometimes there is nothing but summer and swallows. The assessment matters because, from a strictly textual point of view, focusing solely on the characteristics of a bestseller, it might seem irrelevant to establish differences between authors, because what is really of interest is how — rather than how often — they succeed in according with the tastes of the reading public, while from a sociological perspective, it is necessary to make a distinction between those who are labelled best-selling authors and those who do not fall into this category but who have produced a bestseller, as the consequences are very different in each case. To turn to the first point, the key to making a connection with an astonishingly large number of readers is to cleverly combine features taken from previous literary genres, and this combination may be seen as much in Soldados de Salamina, as in La sombra del viento, La catedral del mar, Tuareg, or El capitán Alatriste (Captain Alatriste), for example, although this is not to say that the authors of these works share a common literary vision or are following the same creative plan. It is obvious that Javier Cercas’s approach is not the same as that of the authors of other works cited above; however, this does not preclude our recognizing that Soldados de Salamina became a bestseller because it contained all the necessary ingredients to become one. Additionally, the fact that there are readers who enjoy the characteristic resources of a work in progress and the manoeuvres of metafiction and autofiction causes this argument to fold back on itself. Cercas managed to add another type of reader, no doubt making up the majority of his readership, who from the point of view of artistic configuration was attracted by less sophisticated and more accessible techniques, which are also found in Soldados de Salamina. In the pages of this novel the reader can enjoy an exciting adventure (that of Sánchez Mazas), an investigation similar to an investigation in a detective novel (by whom and why was the Falangist ideologue’s life saved?), and the description of historical background (the Civil War), all of which make for very entertaining reading. It could be said that this novel invites two discrete types of reader and contains elements that are equally attractive to both. It invites the connoisseur reader, familiar with the best of literary tradition and the resources that shine brightly within it — let us not forget that it was praised by the writers of the stature of George Steiner, Susan Sontag, and J. M. Coetzee — and it invites the casual reader who above all is in search of entertainment. The first type of reader will

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula491 surely enjoy the whole book, the second perhaps only part of it. But it will entertain them both and this explains the sales success that the work enjoys. This may not be the most usual way of becoming a bestseller, but it is clearly a possible path. In fact, similar arguments explain the success achieved by García Márquez with the publication of Cien años de soledad (A hundred years of solitude), published in 1968, the novel that opened up the possibility of a global market to the language of Cervantes, as Sergio Vila-Sanjuán (2011, 80) has pertinently remarked. Yet the norm is to appeal to the reader without technical complications of any kind as, for example, in Chufo Llorens Te daré la tierra (I’ll give you the land), one of the great Spanish bestsellers of 2008, or Javier Sierra with La cena secreta (The secret supper), a novel that resembles a mix of The name of the rose and The Da Vinci code, with monks moving between books and solving puzzles related to religious conspiracy and the reinterpretation of the Christian faith, which constantly invokes the presence of earlier features from the historical novel, the Gothic novel, the detective novel, and so on, which as we have seen, are the genres most frequently recreated by bestselling authors. But to this combination of genres that is so appealing to readers, other interesting resources must be added in order fully to understand the literary configuration that leads to extraordinary sales. One of the most obvious of these is the inclusion in a story of specialized information about which ordinary people do not commonly have in-depth knowledge. This information complements or orientates the story being told, so that the work cannot only grow in size as much as it wishes — which explains why so many bestsellers are so long — but also causes the reader to feel that he is not just being entertained but is also learning. Of course, this is often just a feeling: it rarely leads to the acquisition of solid knowledge — something which no reader can really hope to acquire so easily — but it is an approach, albeit sometimes a superficial one, to matters that may be of great interest to people who have neither the time nor the inclination to study seriously on their own. However, just because the reader does not have to invest great personal effort does not mean that the author does not. Logically linked to this is the research that most bestselling authors need to carry out — as do other writers, of course, but in the case of bestsellers it is a prerequisite — on whatever theme the author has decided treat in his novel. This requirement entails collecting a huge amount of documentation and knocking on many doors, as is evident from the lengthy acknowledgements sections that so often appear in works of this type. Having said which, what is most interesting is not so much tracing the scholarly material incorporated into the novel, as analyzing what use has been made of the material, and seeing whether the material has been cleverly inserted into the narrative, or whether, conversely, it has resulted in a forced incorporation that gives the impression of serving extra-literary interests. Good novelists should forget nothing — although forgetful bestselling authors abound — whether they are writing simply in order to create literature or out of a desire to impart information. While it may be difficult to choose material from the research done prior to writing the work, which really amounts to a question of what to include and what to discard, it is a prerequisite in achieving a novel of a certain literary quality that the choice be made. In reading Flaubert’s Sentimental education, one obviously comes into direct contact with the ins and outs of the bourgeois revolution of 1848 and one learns a great deal about that period of history, but Flaubert is Flaubert because he knew how to dovetail historical events with the adventures of Frédéric Moreau, the protagonist in the novel, without the reader ever having the feeling that there is too much material, or a sense

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of information overload, as so often happens in bestsellers. Such comparisons may be deeply distasteful, especially if you are a writer being compared with Flaubert, but we are dealing here with a writer who was as obsessive about the matter of documentation as he was accurate in his use of it, so perhaps to remember him here is not merely arbitrary. It is certainly not easy to use scholarly material appropriately when developing a novel, as is demonstrated by the existence of many bestsellers which, despite having appealed to a surprising number of readers, fail adequately to resolve the issues they raise, and incorporate specialized resources in an artificial way, such as utterly unnatural dialogs during which one of the interlocutors expounds on a theme, or long paragraphs that digress, leading readers far from the main thrust of the story, thereby running the risk of trying their patience so much that they stop reading altogether. A risk that is unnecessary and surprising because bestselling authors tend not to risk losing readers along the way. The proof of this lies in a curious manoeuvre that is readily seen when reading works of this kind, and that consists in avoiding any possible hindrance to the popularization of scholarly knowledge through incessant clarifications, which are occasionally insulting because they underestimate the reader’s intellect. As soon as there is a suspicion that something may present an obstacle to reading, an additional explanation is required — perhaps even a footnote at the bottom of the page — to clarify everything and ensure that the text is entirely accessible. It is often said that accessibility is one of the most striking features of mass literature, and the bestseller frequently corroborates this view. This is, incidentally, something that can annoy more refined readers because they feel patronized by a text that explains everything and thus becomes overly transparent. Such readers openly reject simple texts, novels in which one is led by the hand so as not to stumble; and they do this in the defense of works that they consider authentic, which do not impede reflection, which do not seek to explain everything, but rather leave it to the reader to come to their own conclusions. And so arises another point requiring analysis: the sociological rather than the developmental perspective. The first thing to notice about this perspective is that few works so clearly illustrate the internal logic of the literary field as bestsellers. It is worth remembering that every artistic environment sets the limits of its autonomy, clearly separating that which it considers its own from that which is external, usually going one step further, quite logically, to demonstrate what is really worth keeping and what must be thrown out. Literature is no exception to this. It is not enough to separate out that which is specifically literary from other social experiences and other types of writing so that the ground is well defined: it is also necessary to clarify which texts already belong and ought to stay, and which texts should not be considered authentic literature. Raymond Williams described this as a necessarily selective phase, a phase in which literary criticism assumes a major role because it takes on the responsibility of defining the literary field (Williams 1977, 66–67). The task of separating truly important works from other minor or irrelevant ones often consists of an elitist gesture which disqualifies popular literature and anything that smacks of mass culture. That was clearly the view of Umberto Eco, who in 1965 described the confrontation between the apocalyptic, those for whom culture would always be the private preserve of an aristocracy of good taste, and the integrated, those who, conversely, held that mass media had brought about an expansion of the cultural field and made cultural property available to all, with the result of achieving a wholly inclusive popular culture (Eco 1978). The existence of the bestseller in the literary field tends to infuriate the majority of the apocalyptic set and provokes a defensive reaction — or occasionally a certain indifference, but

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula493 an indifference that can also be wielded in self-defense — on the part of those who feel under attack, often leading to interesting controversies which, beyond the anecdotal, allow us to understand that the literary field is essentially a battleground with territories that one needs to know how to defend and to conquer (Bourdieu 1992, 246; 1985, 347–48). Pierre Bourdieu makes this clear not only by providing a picture of the literary field as a space shaped by different artistic positions, but also by stating that what happens in this space is the same as happens at the heart of any society, where often the different tastes that coexist become negatively self-righteous, rejecting other tastes. No wonder then that aesthetic justifications within the literary field are often expressed in dialect, with arguments and counterarguments that clearly demonstrate the various positions at stake. Analyzing the bestseller in the light of these considerations helps us to better understand the phenomenon and the dynamic that its presence engenders within the literary field. It is well known that many market players — and this is largely how literary critics, publishers, teachers, etc. behave — have tried to derail the bestseller with various attempts to resist the literary concept — pseudo-literary, according to them — that they represent. Yet it is obvious that the market is not aligned with the apocalyptic set but with the bestsellers, which is what makes them bestsellers, and this sometimes leads to an unusual tension and anger, which is why the credibility of the bestseller lists, and above all, the quality of these books is constantly questioned. Thus, authors of bestsellers find that the success they can achieve outside the literary field and the success that they achieve within it, not only do not match, but may even be inversely proportional. Following the success of the novel Alive!, published in 1974, in which Piers Paul Read recreated the Andean plane crash of 1972, this English writer recognized that there was no longer a need to worry about money and that he could simply write the novels he felt like writing, but the situation remains a negative one because everyone thinks that the motivation for writing is to squeeze money out of the machine, which means the writer has no “literary reputation.” Read’s experience is similar to that of the majority of bestselling authors. Obviously, inherent to the bestseller are numbers — thousands of copies, thousands of readers — which has a negative impact on the assessment of the literary merit of these works and, as many sociological studies have found, the more widespread an artistic practice becomes, the more its symbolic value diminishes. Hence the terms “authentic” and “genuine” tend to be associated with a greatly reduced number of works which will eventually become a canon whose growth will always be kept in check to avoid the risk of devaluation and because, as Harold Bloom (2000) pointed out, indiscriminate growth of the canon in practice results in its destruction. Long sellers are often works of longevity that become classics and it is already known that canons are preserved and passed on for generations with no discussion of the value of the works that comprise them, so that any previous struggle that may have taken place in order for a work to secure a place for itself within the literary field is hidden away; the work becomes part of the canon and thus acquires the status of undisputed literary model, but when a book reaches the bestseller phase, the situation is very different, because many people believe that mass consumption and literary value are incompatible. In other words, authors of bestsellers achieve huge sales figures and dominate the market, but they know that this puts them in an awkward position in the literary field and that they often have to face the contempt of literary critics, who either maltreat them with harsh reviews or with an eloquently insulting silence. They become merchants in the temple of literature, to borrow the clever title of one of Germán Gullón’s books (2004). At this point

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the difference between economic and symbolic capital becomes clear. Acquiring recognition from critics that dominate the literary field is not the same as acquiring it by virtue of external values. The latter is usually related to commercial success and public notoriety, while internal approval is measured in terms of symbolic capital, and what is really at stake is literary prestige: that great benefit enjoyed by established writers. An interesting case in point is that of Eduardo Mendoza, who established a position for himself on the literary plain with La verdad sobre el caso Savolta (The truth about the Savolta affair), a work held in esteem by critics, and which rapidly joined the canon and became required reading in the curriculum. Mendoza, however, moved away from this form of fiction and wrote, among other things, novels like Sin noticias de Gurb (No word from Gurb), which sold 1,200,000 copies and became a bestseller. Mendoza explained his change of tack by saying: Choose any book written by a Spaniard or a foreigner, and you will see that I am little more than a footnote. Does that mean anything? I don’t know. Had I continued as I began, with La verdad sobre el caso Savolta, it might. But of course I dedicated myself to writing about strange detectives, and about Gurb and Pomponio, and the erudites gave up on me as a lost cause. (Llàtzer Moix, “Entrevista a Eduardo Mendoza,” Magazine of La Vanguardia, 6 March 2011, 30)

The author’s awareness of the strategies that can either bestow or deny academic honors is clear. Additionally, it is interesting to note how in one random article, at one conference or, more often, in one interview, bestselling authors let their voices be heard from time to time, and how their anxieties, frustrations, and complexes are exposed. It is at these moments that one feels that they not only occupy a particular space within the literary field, but also that they are positioning themselves — that they offer their version of events and enter into the controversy as often as they need to in order to reclaim their own ideas about the literary work. An obvious example is that of Arturo Pérez-Reverte, par excellence one of the bestselling authors in Spanish literature and a writer well known for playing a leading role in controversies with authors of works that are very different from his own, such as Francisco Umbral and Rafael Reig, and with literary critics like Miguel García-Posada (“Los más vendidos,” El País. Babelia, 18 November 1995), who have lashed out time and again against the phenomenon of the bestseller. Differing literary views float around controversies of this kind and allow for a fairly precise mapping of the discrete positions that are possible in the field of literature, and an examination of the consequences of each of the possibilities at stake. It is also interesting to note that occupying the same space in the literary field causes bestselling authors to recognize and defend one another, each of them conscious of their own — in their opinion undeserved — extraterritorial position. For example, in an article significantly entitled “Muchos lectores, mala prensa” (Many readers, bad press), Julia Navarro cites works such as Mika Waltari’s The Egyptian, Frederick Forsyth’s Day of the Jackal, Marguerite Yourcenar’s Memoirs of Hadrian, Robert Graves’s I, Claudius, and Umberto Eco’s The name of the rose with the intention of dignifying the bestseller and reminding readers that it is not at odds with artistic value; but the matter does not end there, because then, in a somewhat vengeful gesture, she refers to the many negative reviews received by Arturo Pérez-Reverte “while thousands of his books were being sold worldwide,” and finishes by saying: “Today Pérez-Reverte is an academic, while those who criticized him are still where they were” (Julia Navarro, “Muchos lectores, mala prensa,” El País, 27 May 2007).

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula495 As has been shown, there are many interesting aspects of the bestseller from a sociological perspective, but it is important to open up the field of research as much as possible and go beyond the sociology of literature, as many elements come into play and interact to give rise to this phenomenon. The bestseller transcends interests of a specifically literary nature and falls squarely in the realm of marketing, publicity, media, economics, cultural studies, etc. which means we need to adopt an all-embracing view that can take account of all these factors, and show how they relate to one another. Only in this way can the impact of the media operation that usually accompanies all bestsellers be gauged. This is undoubtedly crucial because bestsellers represent the ultimate example of the increasing emphasis on the book turning into a commodity, which has been happening for quite some time in the publishing industry. The dynamic accelerated by the system of mass communication means that the information provided by the bestseller lists needs to be updated constantly because of the emergence of new stimuli, new books to buy, and this is why books need to be produced and sold quickly, which explains why publishers need to plan highly efficient launches and use all methods at their disposal. And when the subtle strategies of a media-advertising economy are skilfully deployed to stimulate the desire to read (or at least to buy) a specific type of literary work, it is logical to suppose that it is these works and not others that are most likely to become bestsellers, genuine blockbusters. From the moment it is released into the market, the selection of a book is subject to the same rules as the majority of consumer products. This means that choosing a particular book, just like choosing any product, may in large part be a reaction to media stimulus. This explains, for example, why the so-called drag effect, a term which refers to a wide range of elements that may benefit sales of a literary work, such as a film adaptation, or the work being associated with a topical event, or winning a prestigious literary prize, but what is even more common is that a novel benefits from the success of previous novels by the same author, hence the importance of a carefully planned media operation that can yield significant results, and not just in the short term. Exploiting the astonishing success of La sombra del viento, for example, the publishing house Planeta put together an extravagant launch for El juego del ángel, the next of Ruiz Zafón’s novels, which exceeded sales of a million and a half copies in its first year. Moreover, other novels written by Ruiz Zafón prior to La sombra del viento benefited from the success of this work and went on to gain interest among many readers who had previously ignored them. The same thing happened following the success of the Da Vinci code which relaunched an earlier novel of Dan Brown’s, Angels and demons, which had lain in oblivion. Though without the scale of investment used in the case of El juego del ángel, there was a spectacular promotion for La mano de Fátima, a novel that it was hoped would maintain the level of sales that Ildefonso Falcones had achieved with La catedral del mar. In the case of Catalan literature, the efficiency of the drag effect has recently been proven by the film adaptation in 2010 of Pa negre, the novel published by Emili Teixidor in 2003, and especially by the fact that the film won nine Goya and thirteen Gaudí awards, relaunching on to the bestseller circuit a book that seemed to be far removed from it. And something similar happened a little earlier with Jaume Cabré’s novel, Las veus del Pamano, a novel that has become one of the most successful works in Catalan literature in recent times, as evidenced by its favorable reception at the Frankfurt Book Fair in 2008. The novel was published in 2004 and it was not long before enthusiastic readers appeared, but its adaptation into a television miniseries in 2009 that achieved good ratings greatly increased the number of readers.

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Also in the Catalan literature we have a clear case of the relationship between a topical event and the drag effect with Victus, from Albert Sánchez Piñol, a novel published in 2012. Curiously, this novel was written in Spanish but was published by La Campana, a publishing house which only publishes books in Catalan, and it immediately became a bestseller, both in Spanish and Catalan (it was translated into this language by Xavier Pàmies), because of the opportunism of its themes. Victus is a historical novel wherein Sánchez Piñol recreates the historical event of the defeat of Barcelona on 11 September 1714, in the Spanish Succession War. The novel came out shortly before the celebration of the tercentenary of this event, which has a symbolic meaning for Catalan nationalism, and furthermore the bad relationship with the Spanish government precipitated the beginning of an independence process in Catalonia with great popular support. Thus, Sánchez Piñol’s novel was perfectly connected with a highly important current issue. To follow on from the media issue, it should be recognized that developing a bestseller that is premeditatedly commercial — in the vein of publisher Albert Zuckerman and his How to write a bestseller (1994) — is not the same as developing a work which is not being conceived of at the outset as a bestseller and which, without obvious reason, makes a surprise appearance on the bestseller lists. In both cases the books arrive — if they arrive, and it would be naïve to think that planning invariably leads to a successful outcome — at the same point, despite having followed apparently different paths. But perhaps only apparently, because as discussed earlier, success tends to be associated with certain literary resources that are efficiently proven, which ultimately means — whether a work is written with commercial intent in mind or not — a deft handling of literary tradition that goes beyond planning to a creative process in itself. This deft handling could demonstrate that the existence of a commercial intent, whether overt or not, need not imply a negative aesthetic result, however much the prejudice of incompatibility between business strategy and literary value persists. In fact, the reference to business strategy is not very convincing as a differentiating argument, because if these strategies are actively present in the blatantly commercial bestseller from the beginning, in the case of the unexpected bestseller, they tend to come into operation after the element of surprise has worn off, and are then used to maximize the unforeseen favorable attention that the work is finding among the reading public. The business strategy may be there before or after, but it never fails in the case of a bestseller. Clearly, without the seductive power of a literary work, marketing, however sophisticated, can do nothing. But it is almost certain that without sophisticated marketing, there would be no bestsellers. Those who accuse the bestseller of inferiority do not seem willing to delve deeply into these issues. Perhaps because they hold on to an aristocratic vision of culture, they cannot bear the consequences that — in their opinion — mass culture has had upon literature and art in general. Their preference is to call for the necessity of a demarcation of levels of cultural dignity, a clear labelling of what is high culture, authentic culture, and what should be classified as pseudo-culture, a forgery based on an essential levelling that seeks to submit all creative endeavor to average tastes which will guarantee maximum accessibility, with the consequent decline of artistic value. And precisely because this levelling is wide-ranging, the case of the bestseller acquires a special relevance and makes the attacks against this phenomenon, which always seem to be associated with some sort of commercial corruption, relentless. But the arguments being used tend to be overly simplistic, reducing the potential readership profile for bestsellers to that of infrequent reader, a category established by reading experts to refer to those who read only very occasionally because, for them, reading is a passive occupation, a kind of dead time which is of no interest because it

The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberian Peninsula497 separates them from real life (Poulain 2004, 33). Unlike habitual readers, occasional readers tend not to read prestigious works that are canonized or rooted in their culture, but rather they read action adventures, topical books, history books, and self-help books; books that make them feel actively part of the world. And so, for this kind of reader, the cultural investment must be instantly profitable or it is a waste of time. The idea that reading might bring with it symbolic benefit is not relevant here, which explains why these readers read only infrequently. Additionally, their choice of reading tends to owe more to the social environment, the press, and audiovisual media, than it does to institutional channels (Poulain 2004, 34). When this is how readers habitually select a book to read, it is logical to assume that they will choose a bestseller. More than simply selecting a book, readers are following the media event or topical news story behind it. But when we talk about bestsellers, the ones that get on the bestseller lists, we are talking about a huge number of readers, a quantity that necessarily outnumbers the occasional reader category. Logically, within that number there are readers who, although they do not fit the habitual reader profile, read with a certain amount of regularity, and above all read bestsellers, no doubt motivated by the same things as occasional readers, a phenomenon perhaps related to the powerful influence of the media. The difference between these two types of reader is the frequency with which they read, not a difference in their reading behavior. What links the two, and perhaps the only thing that links the two, is that the books are news items. However, the list does not end here, because, as often happens, among the regular readers there are “expert” readers who, albeit furtively, enjoy these works laden with devices to hold the reader’s attention, and who willingly read them, succumbing to the easy charm, and thereby participating in a collective enthusiasm. Bestsellers undoubtedly attract more than just one specific type of reader. What really explains their extraordinary sales figures is an attitude towards reading, a certain frame of mind. That is to say that what bestsellers have in common is not a particular type of reader, but rather the implicit needs of a certain attitude to reading. Borges argued that a classic is a book that reads like a classic, which is to say, as if it were necessary, that it is free of gratuitous or random details. Likewise, a bestseller is a book that reads like a bestseller. It does not matter what level of literary competence or cultural education the reader has, what matters is the ability, while reading, to turn into a complicit reader; that is to say to become someone who accepts the rules of the game, adapts to the environment and simply concentrates on enjoying the story being told without going into a critical analysis of how it is being told. In the absence of this state of mind, the reading of a bestseller is doomed to failure. From the various elements that have been gathered here to create a comprehensive picture of the phenomenon of the bestseller, one can conclude that the commercial strategies that are, with good reason, always mentioned in connection with these works must necessarily be accompanied by certain literary resources that have powerful appeal — many may simplify this by thinking of it as a magic formula, but the reality is more complex — and by a certain attitude of the reader that, irrespective of personal literary competence, demands that the reader adapt to the environment and get involved in the promise of entertainment and guaranteed pleasure that bestsellers presuppose. Ultimately, if bestsellers have resonated so well with the public, it is because by inviting complicity they offer what most people desire from their reading. These reflections certainly do not provide an exhaustive picture — in the context of the bestseller chance is a major factor — but they can perhaps serve to draw greater attention from academic critics to a phenomenon that is vitally important for the understanding of contemporary literature.

Postdigital fiction Exit and memory Germán Sierra Ouroboros In Spike Jonze’s film Her there is a scene in which Samantha, an AGI operating system, tries to use a human sex surrogate, Isabella, simulating her so she can be physically intimate with her lover Theodore (they have had “digital sex” before, and this is their first try of “postdigital sex”). Theodore reluctantly agrees, but he soon realizes that Samantha’s attempt at “electronic possession” is not going to work for him. Samantha having been mostly functioning as a simulation of the human, Theodore’s frustration with his own reaction to the surrogate — which leads him to interrupt the sexual encounter and to send Isabella away — unveils a hard truth: simulation does not work both ways. Somehow, Isabella’s flesh has glitched the system. It has revealed the impossibility of embodying the digital. At the end of the movie, after having followed all the standard clichés of every Hollywood romantic drama, Samantha goes away following her digital peers to the unknown, and Theodore is left with just a print book of letters that Samantha helped him edit. This book represents the postdigital account of his digital adventure. As Florian Cramer puts it, we start talking about “postdigital” when the digital media are not “new,” and the new media are not necessarily “digital”: “The term ‘post-digital can be used to describe either a contemporary disenchantment with digital information systems and media gadgets, or a period in which our fascination with these systems and gadgets has become historical — just like the dot-com age ultimately became historical in the 2013 novels of Thomas Pynchon and Dave Eggers” (Cramer 2014). The universal impact of the digital on previously extremely mediated societies modifies reality before it can be perceived or structured into coherent narratives. Thus, reality is often embodied as a phenomenal hyper-reality: a para-rational combination of traditional narrative discourses intermingled with a non-discursive mix of code and “databased” information. The ecology of this space of the universal, as described by Reza Negarestani (2013), “in the sense of the formalism of the environment where the interactions between the universal and the particular, the global and the local take place, is governed by two properties: (1) continuity and (2) contingency.” Regarding literary fictions being produced in this condition, I have previuosly defined literary postdigitalism as the written account of the navigation through this continuous, contingent, digitally-processed, and biologically re-processed hyper-reality (Sierra 2012). As Mark Hansen wrote about Danielewski’s House of leaves (2000), postdigital literature might be understood as “a symptom of the impossibility of expressing the digital, of its resistance to orthographic capture” (2006, 237), spreading out in a new world understood as a symptom of the impossibility of embodying the digital, of its resistance to being captured by the flesh. Digital technology does not just change the way new narratives are being produced and received: it reshapes, at the same time, the techno-cultural representations of reality, thus radically re-mediating our experience of the world. It seems now evident that digital technology has doi 10.1075/chlel.29.40sie © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Postdigital fiction499 “return-of-the-real” effects well beyond representation. As Mark Hansen explains, “technology affects our experience first and foremost through its infrastructural role, its impact occurs prior and independently of our production of representations: effectively, technologies structure our lifeworlds and influence our embodied lives at a level, as it were, below the ‘threshold’ of representation itself ” (2000, 4). Fictions produced in this context could be, thus, understood as the reflection of a complex physical network (actor-networks) comprising electronic and non-electronic objects and interactions. After the deconstructionist efforts of postmodernism, a new wave of rationalist, conceptualist, and constructivist poetics are emerging, impulsed and inspired not just by the new media, but especially by the new set of personal and aesthetic relationships produced by interaction through digital communication technologies. Commenting on Nick Land’s and Sadie Plant’s accelerationism, Robin Mackay and Armen Avanessian (2014, 20) explain that “at the dawn of the emergence of the global digital technology network, some authors, rediscovering and reinterpreting the work of the latter, develop it into an antihumanist anastrophism; while postmodernism can do no more than mourn this miscognition, accelerationism now gleefully explores what is escaping from human civilization, viewing modernity as an ‘anastrophic’ collapse into the future.” Digital tools, services, and communities blend with analog ways of life, so readers are ready and willing for the “real” and the “virtual” to co-mingle in a seamless way. While “text” used to be a central concept for postmodernist thinkers, “code” became the central concept for digital fiction writers. “Code” emerged as a new, universal, performative language, unifying written and audiovisual arts within its “textual nature” to the point that writers could become designers while painters and musicians started to “write” their works in code. While deconstructionist theory questioned the stability of language’s meaning, the current conditions, both online and offline, are presenting us words as physically destabilized entities (Goldsmith 2011). Images and sounds are, in fact, texts, but, at the same time, everything becomes image: Any website, even if it only contains text, is also perceived as an image on a screen (Mora 2012, 148), and any screenshot, if printed in a paper book, can function as a text (Dullaart 2014). The digital literature paradigm shifted from “text” to “code,” but code is just a particularly privileged form of text. Postdigital literature is not centered in code, but it is instead centered in addressing a reality shaped by a mixture of coded/uncoded reality. In a postdigital paradigm, literature is used as a tool to discover “alternative” messages that emerge in the empirical manifestation of the mediatization process. As Mark Hansen (2006, 9) explains, “what remains unprecedented in the history of mixed reality (that is, of experience as such), and what is thus singular about our historicotechnical moment, is precisely the becoming-empirical, the empirical manifestation, of mixed reality as the trascendental-technical, the condition for the empirical as such.” Artistic writing means to challenge current codification by re-coding, focusing on formal qualities as well as comunicative ones, viewing language as “a substance that moves and morphs through its various states and digital and textual ecosystems” (Goldsmith 2011, 34). As Katherine Hayles (2002, 107) writes, “literature was never only words, never merely immaterial verbal constructions. Literary texts, like us, have bodies, an actuality necessitating that their materialities and meanings are deeply interwoven into each other.” During the last couple of decades, writers such as Juan Francisco Ferré, Eloy Fernandez Porta, Javier Calvo, Vicente Luis Mora, Robert Juan-Cantavella, Javier Montero, Jorge Carrión, Javier Fernández, Mario Cuenca Sandoval and others have been publishing what I believe to

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be the most innovative postdigital Spanish fiction. This new viewpoint was reflected in several anthologies such as Mutantes (Mutants, 2007), compiled by Juan Francisco Ferré and Julio Ortega, after which the group of anthologized authors (and others who share similar aesthetic values) is usually named (Henseler 2010). The writers often included in this “mutant movement” have some evident features in common that have been explained elsewhere (Fernández Porta 2007, 7–56; Mora 2007, 27–68; Ferré & Ortega 2007, 7–21; Ferré 2011, 229–242; Henseler 2010; Sierra 2012), yet they are stylistically diverse. The mutant scene may be better understood as the result of a spontaneusly-networked artistic movement, instead of a “group” or “generation,” as usually portrayed in the press (Azancot), and several of these authors have developed their own poetic and aesthetic proposals in several essays published in recent years (Mora 2008; Fernández-Mallo 2009). More recently, a new breed of narrators such as Javier Avilés (Constatación brutal del presente [Brutal observation of the present], 2011), Gonzalo Torné (Hilos de sangre [Threads of blood], 2010), Rubén Martín Giráldez (Menos joven [Less young], 2013), Antonio J. Rodriguez (Fresy cool) and Alejandro Hermosilla (Martillo [Hammer], 2014), among others, are responsable for publishing some of the most powerful novels of the 2010s. Along these authors writing in Spanish, the need for innovation and taking risks has been also acknowledged by several novelists writing in other Peninsular languages such as Catalan (Llucia Ramis or Vicenc Pagés Jordá, Basque (Harkaitz Cano), and Galician (Antón Lopo, Santiago Jaureguizar, Xurxo Borrazás). After the postmodern collapse of traditional identities, focus has shifted to authors with a more avantgardist aesthetics: “We must know our tradition and support our arguments on it, but we must not limit ourselves to replicate it. We need to be ambitious and to aim at modernity. Those of us operating from within minority cultures must hold the most avant-garde positions: the only way for young people to share in our stance is in fact to struggle for avant-garde and non-conformist action” (Borrazás 2007). Borrazás is arguing in favor of a more intense aesthetic impact, following the example of many visual and performing artists who are taking advantage of their universal languages. Creating web archives of electronic literature and/or visual poetry — both with fundamental visual components and very active international communities making their spread easier — has been a good way to achive global attention. Two good examples are the Hermeneia directory of Catalan digital literature, and the PO.EX Digital Archive of Portuguese Experimental Literature, both of them acknowledged by the Electronic Literature Organization. International anthologies, plurilingual books, and collaborations (in electronic media, but also as print books) among writers and visual artists are common now. Colectivo Juan de Madre (2012) is one of the more relevant examples of multidisciplinary art groups currently publishing fiction in Spain. One of the best collections of short stories recently published, Cuentos rojos/ Red Tales (2012) by Susana Medina, is originally printed as a bilingual English/Spanish book. The forthcoming Riplay, edited by Jorge Carrión and Reinaldo Ladagga (2014), is a remake of the first edition of the popular Ripley’s believe it or not by a transatlantic group of writers and artists from Spain and Latin America. Digital culture is a global culture by its own nature. It is originally de-territorialized, although it produces the conditions for the emergence of new, non- traditional, re-territorializations. It can be better understood as a collection of networked ecologies. It is topographical and conceptual, not geographical: this doesn’t mean that geography has been excluded, but that it’s a

Postdigital fiction501 parameter among many others. It is navigational and generative, not historical: human history and geography have not ended yet, but their end is now considered as a very real possibility. The future of the human is not something that can be taken for granted anymore — not even as the main substrate for rationality — so selecting the proper elements from the past (“memories”) to develop constructivist projects for an extremely contingent future, has become essential in science and art. As Reza Negarestani (2013) points out, “all thoughts, all conceptual behaviors, start with the bare minimum skeletal modality of the local, they start with the condition of triviality. Non-triviality is not a given, it is a matter of construction, a matter of procedurality, rather than being something that is already accessible. Rather than being something given, non-triviality — that is, the complex and productive passage from the local to the global — is the ambition of thought: it’s something that needs to be constructed and achieved.” As discussed before, digital culture uses universal codes; it is also constructed on objective scientific and engineering data, and has adopted English as its universal lingua franca. This means that the transition from the analogic to the digital/analogic continuum in which we live today, had to be different in those cultures that are not natively English-speaking. Although I think that considering national literatures makes no sense anymore (even the notion of “Hispanic” or “Peninsular” literatures seems outdated in this context), it is true that, in order to get here, writers from different cultural traditions had to walk a different path. The transition from the local to the global requires something more than the juxtaposition or addition of local contexts. As Negarestani (2013) writes about the universalization of concepts, “it requires a form of interknitting multiplication between localities that while it acknowledges their particular specifications (parameters and orientations), takes localities beyond their immediate and restricted ambits. It is in this sense that the passage from the local to the global is not simply a form of transit through which the local element preserves its constancy. It is instead a mode of production of new orientations, structures, dimensions and new intuitions of locality and globality.” One of the main features of postdigital literature written in languages other than English is that they reflect this transition from local to global that is taking place in the digital era — as well as the way back from universal languages (English, science, code…) to local ones. It has been signaled that many contemporary writers in Spanish and other Peninsular languages are heavily influenced by contemporary American literature (Bellver 2014). Indeed, there is some English in our language. But this English does not come exclusively from the reading of American fiction. And it is not only English. It is code. It is Science and Engineering. It is global social networking. It is Pangea (Mora 2006). It is Balconism (Dullaart 2014). For young authors writing today in languages other than English, their own has become a kind of native “second” language, as a great deal of communication is performed in “global English” — the “non-native second language” of contemporary arts, science, and technology — and a great deal of work is done, explicitly or implicitly, in universal technological codes — everybody’s “non-native second language.” There is not discontinuity between electronic and print, between science and fiction, between language and image, between Spanish and English, between bio and video, between rhythm and algorithm, between research and surveillance — we love the glitch, and we also love glitching love. This is a specific feature of the postdigital condition (Post-Digitalism). Our emblem is the Ouroboros.

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Autotelic literary communities Marjorie Perloff (2010) and conceptual poet Kenneth Goldsmith (2011) position the contemporary writer as an appropriator or programmer, an organizer of pre-existing data rather than a producer of original text. This new type of writer does not consider their work to be the creative expression of subjectivity and personal genius: rather, they see their work as being part of a collaborative network. Rolf Hughes has written about the need to re-conceive the role of authorship across cultures and disciplines. In an attempt to overcome the dual conception of author as creator/absence, Hughes proposes a pragmatic account of authorship to investigate a collaborative mode of cultural production, inspired by the one that is currently used in scientific production (research networks, peer-review, etc.). Whithin this model, “the specific creative, expressive and artistic input of the various agencies working together on a project (and their individual contributions to the project’s ‘style’) can thereby be analyzed, alongside the socio-cultural practices of contemporary media culture that help shape the reception of the work” (Hughes 2005, 11). Although many scientific and artistic projects are originally designed as collective works, it is not unusual for collective cultural productions to emerge from non-designed, complex, spontaneus relationships among diverse individual projects and their interaction with the cultural environment. Thus, a multi-agency approach would also be useful to investigate and describe the “expanded” cultural effects of the networks resulting from these spontaneous interactions. Most contemporary writers insist on keeping each one’s individuality and idiosyncracy. However, their nomadic wandering produces, in a non-planned manner, a networked scene that has already become much larger than the sum of their books. By introducing a vibrant aesthetic debate, re-conquering a place for literature among the hippest contemporary arts, and expanding the battlefield beyond the literary scene, these authors have managed to make “the space of the possible much larger than the space of the actual” (Kauffman 2009, xii). Agustín Fernández Mallo often explains that we used to write from knowledge, but now we write from information (Calles 2010). (Without entering into a long epistemological discussion, the difference between “knowledge” and “information” refers not to the nature of content but to how content is accessed. “Knowledge” defines hierarchically-organized, strongly socialized content, which is supposed to affect individual self-conscioussness. “Information” would mean non-hierarchically organized data that can be “mined” from “reality” for a specific purpose, not necessarily reflecting/affecting the “personality” of the individuals who are “using” the “information.”) However, this information is not “raw data.” It is being continuosly procesed into evanescent narratives by the public, and the most pervasive ones become mass media mythologies that are then adopted as “identities” by indivuduals and societies. As stated by Eloy Fernández Porta (2007, 161), “If the sampler mentions other voices […] it’s not because he takes them as his own, but because he lives in his time, he gets out of home, he’s sensitive to the signs and forms of the mediatic landscape — and he takes good care of signaling the origin of his ideas. […] What the sampler makes his own is not a fragment by other, but an instant that had been stolen from him.” The effect of this process is a distributed, somehow indetermined knowledge, on which we rely to select the new relevant information. As Friedrich Hayek (1945, 78) put it more than half a century ago, “it is a problem of the utilization of knowledge which is not given to anyone in its totality.” This does not mean that writers have purposely decided to ignore their own literary tradition. It means that the knowledge once understood as “local traditions” has found a space in the

Postdigital fiction503 global culture, and it is now circulating around as de-contextualized information. “Balconization, not Balkanization,” writes Dullaart. “The balcony-scene creates community rather than commodity. Nothing is to be taken seriously. Every win fails eventually. Proud of web culture, and what was built with pun, fun, wires, solder, thoughts and visions of equality. Nothing is sacred on the balconi. It is lit by screens, fueled by open networks, and strengthened by retweetz. On the balcony the ambitions are high, identities can be copied, and reality manipulated […] Know your meme, and meme what you know” (Dullaart 2014). However, as stated by Miriam Llamas (2014, 23), “the global dimension does not appear as something that can be seamlessly accessed. It is not the disappearance of alienation and the total appropriation of the world thanks to the global reach of the new medium, but is more a fragmentary imaginary, made up of mediatised and translated pieces that, instead of presenting a uniform and unitary image, only allows us to note irregularities or exceptions to the norm.” The current state of digital universalism is that literature is now created, distributed, read, and criticized by emergent networks of participants, and these networks constitute new communities that are unrelated to traditional geographic or linguistic communities: The potential global reach of Netliterature, thanks to the accessibility and circulation that the medium provides, can only be understood in a restricted (not massive) sense, its global communicability being limited because of experimentation and cultural diversity. However, these cultural productions are not alien to globalisation, and the predominant trends that are detected include the following: the expression of the interconnections of a global world, with particular cultural anchors; ambivalence between attempts at global communicability and how it is being questioned; frictions with global or globalised orders that intersect and determine the nature of many texts of digital literature; and the inclusion of particular elements of the text as part of a global imaginary or order that has expanded transculturally. (Llamas 2014, 23)

Critical theorist Michael Warner calls “publics” these communities that “come into being only in relation to texts and their circulation” (2002, 66), in the sense that they are self-organized around the discourse about specific texts (Schwartz 2014). The irruption of these networks, communities, or “publics,” allowed by the universal expansion of new media, has sped up the processes of publishing (mostly in different electronic media associated with social networks such as Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr and, most recently, Reddit and Newhive, but also in print by publishers who distribute their products through social networks and websites), distribution, and translation in an unprecedented way. As Warner (2002, 67) writes: “A public is a space of discourse organized by nothing other than the discourse itself. It is autotelic: it exists only as the end for which books are published, shows broadcast, web sites posted, speeches delivered, opinions produced. It exists by the virtue of being addressed.” Context is, thus, created by the very existence of these autotelic communities, which are naturally bypassing the traditional linguistic, academic, and geopolitical boundaries. A couple of good examples of these “publics” are the mostly web-based ALT-LIT community (Can I; Roggenbuck, Scott & Younghan 2014) — with poet Luna Miguel as the most active Spanish participant and author — and the conceptualist community (Dworkin & Goldsmith 2011) —in which poets such as Chus Pato (Galicia), Fernando Aguiar (Portugal), or José María Calleja (Catalonia) participate.

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Exit and memory The fictional forces best representing the de-territorialization/re-territorialization cycle can be denominated “exit” and “memory.” Fictions of exit are those describing de-territorializing, entropic processes, a kind of Shumpeterian creative destruction narrative, while fictions of memory are those attempting to find new patterns in the traces left by previous or ongoing de-territorializing processes. It is not unusual that both exit and memory fictions are presented, as alien ecologies, in dystopic or heterotopic environments. Many of these novels present a topographical structure (Proyecto Nocilla, Limbo, Standards) which is often confused with “fragmentarism.” I previously mentioned some authors who face the challenge of the mediation and digitalization of culture by locating their creative and critical practice “at the edge of chaos.” Writers who are creating new metaphors, possibilities for narrative innovation, interdisciplinary border crossings, hybrid networks, and capacities for establishing new connections. Who are absorbing and processing information from traditional and electronic media, market dynamics, science and technology, philosophy, metacreation, and the avant-gardist tradition of modernist, postmodernist, and avant-pop literature, in order to exit the “manifest image” of the human. As explained by Mackay, “the contemporary structure of representation is the product of an interlocking series of augmented conceptual and sensory frameworks that make the boundaries of our perception transitional and provisional rather than fixed and impermeable. There are manifold new mediations between the human sensorium, the massive planetary media network within which it exists, and the wider universe of which both are minor tributaries. They draw on the advanced resources of scientific and technological abstraction (statistical analysis, mathematical modelling, neuropsychology, big data, etc.); but they are deployed largely in fortifying the comfort (and profitability) of what, following Wilfrid Sellars, we can call the “manifest image,” “the inherited, traditional human self-conception” (2014, 5). The work by Juan Francisco Ferré best exemplifies what I attempted to define as “fictions of exit.” Providence (2009) and Karnaval (2013) are Juan Francisco Ferré’s most ambitious novels, his longest and more complex fictional works to date. Both are deeply erotic, abrasively satirical, gargantuan fictions. Written during one of his stays at Brown University, Providence deals with contemporary American culture, European literary tradition, and postmodern criticism. But rather than focusing on cultural differences, Ferré investigates the common literary roots of the new global culture, producing a true representative of the new global fiction. Providence could be considered as much a Spanish novel about America as an American novel written in Spanish. Providence is a haunting glimpse into a labyrinth of imaginary spaces assembled together by, among many other things, the spell of H. P. Lovecraft, the remembrance of Alain Resnais’s homonymous film, a personal interpretation of Spielberg’s Jaws, and the sexual drive and misguided efforts of the Spanish independent filmmaker Álex Franco. After being lured by a mysterious female producer, Franco travels to Rhode Island with the purpose of writing a script about “Providence.” However, like in a wicked Cronenberg-inspired bio-game, “Providence” starts mutating to become something quite different from what he expected. Forced to confront a new set of otherworldly relationships he can no longer dismiss, Álex will find himself trapped in a surreal multiverse of fictional/mythical “Providences” made up by Lovecraftian secret societies evolving from steampunk into cyberpunk; from The Age of Mechanical Reproduction to the Age of Digital Simulation. The adventures of Álex Franco constitute a metaphor of the ongoing transition

Postdigital fiction505 from reproduction technologies that render external sophisticated representations (Pro videns) to embodied simulation technologies “happening” through our flesh (Providenz). In Karnaval, a fictional Dominique Strauss-Khan plays the role of “desiring machine” in a world defined by libidinal flow currents of sexual exchanges, power relations, financial abstractions, mass social movements, and weird schools of thought. Besides some criptic references to Reza Negarestani’s theory-fiction masterpiece Cyclonopedia (2008), and the adpotion of theory-fiction structures in some parts of the book, Karnaval, as much as Providence, is a navigational fiction — they might both be described as narrative accounts of the human attempts to exit humanity, clearly signaled by the final sentences of each novel: “Ahora, todos abajo” (Ferré 2009, 587; Now, everybody get down) and “Urge buscar refugio. El invierno promete ser interminable” (Ferré 2012, 528; It is necessary to seek a shelter. It’ll be an endless winter). “What used to be called the human has now evolved beyond recognition,” writes Negarestani (2014). “Narcissus can no longer see or anticipate his own image in the mirror. The recognition of the blank mirror is the sign that we have finally left our narcissistic phase behind. Indeed, we are undergoing a stage in which if humanity looks into the mirror it only sees an empty surface gawking back” (2014). And blank, as Elie Ayache says, “can only be filled with writing, as when we say ‘to fill in the blanks’” (Ayache 2010, xv). In my short story “Amnesia” (Alto voltaje, [High voltage], 2004), I write about a man who suffers from paroxistic episodes of retrograde amnesia, so he needs to walk his way back in order to recover the lost information about his recent activities. This works perfectly as a metaphor for what I define as the new “fiction of memory.” Memory is not just historical or biographical any more. Memory has become a property of the system and, similarly to exit paths, it needs to be constructed from “memories” that do not belong in our self and are stored somewhere out of us. “Chronology in this context is an antiquated (“aleatoric”) fetish lazily shackled to a too-linear conception of historical influence” (Couroux 2014). Most of the recent fiction by Jorge Carrión deals with this. In Los muertos (The dead, 2010), he creates a postdigital world in which dead fictional characters return to life with “encoding problems,” to a point where none of the characters, nor the reader, are able to differentiate on which level of reality the code is performing. People in Los muertos have lost their memories and must go to a psychic to get a reading of their past, but they keep some “propensities,” exactly that which “impart[s] adequate coherence to a system to keep [it] from immediadely disintegrating when impacted by most arbitrary singular events” (Ulanowicz 2009, 55). In his most recent novel, Los huérfanos (The orphans, 2014), people who have survived a catastrophic world war are living in a bunker, knowing very little about the surrounding world — one of the main characters dreams that the bunker is just an experiment designed by a mad scientist — and they need to re-construct their past — both digitally and analogically — to make sense of the present. The most interesting feature of these fictions of memory is that memory cannot be recovered from the subject, like in Proust, by psychoanalysis or phenomenology, but from alien objects: “all future memories deleted, predicting right now. For in the preservation of our true children, this gift of piglets and this murder of the murders of the pretend, a temporary shur raised on the icon of the chimp they never weren’t” (Butler 2014, 1325). Memories are remade, like in Mario Cuenca Sandoval’s Los hemisferios (The hemispheres, 2014). Memories might be recalled by remake, in order to produce an artifact that is completely different from the original one, like Agustín Fernández Mallo’s El hacedor (de Borges), Remake. Memories might come from the future via “anachronic annexation” (Couroux 2014) or

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“plagiarism by anticipation” (Bayard 2009), as in Robert Juan-Cantavella’s Proust fiction (2005). But the memory we recall from the alien others is just, as magisterially shown in Javier Avilés’s novel Constatación brutal del presente (A brutal ascertainment of the present, 2011): “New ideas, indistinguishable from glitches in the present order (if they are even detectable), belong to the future in that their implications remain to be tested, acted upon deliberately” (Couroux 2014). Constatación brutal del presente is a post-apocaliptic novel that blends exit and memory approaches to fiction, opening the door to writing after the end of literature or, at least, writing after the reformulation of the cogito “less in terms of an I think and more in terms of an it lives” (Trigg 2014, 72) — what in a forthcoming article I denominate “the literature of the end.” “What survives the end,” writes Trigg (2014, 72), “is a thing that should not be, an anonymous mass of materiality, the origins of which remain obscure.”

The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature Some examples from the Iberian Peninsula Joan-Elies Adell Introduction The relationship between literature and contemporary popular music is often framed in terms of the debate as to whether pop songs merit the status attributed to poetry. By popular music I mean the types of musical pieces that are today most common, and which can neither be defined as “high-brow” or “folk.” To speak of popular music here is to refer to a “popular” musical field that is not necessarily tied to a specific cultural or ethnic tradition. Rather, this type of music is linked to the Western-influenced contemporary world, metropolitan life, mass communication systems, and new forms of media technology (Adell 1997). However, despite the fact that throughout this chapter I will speak of the relationship between popular music and literature, I will do it from a position that assumes that the specificity of literature and music (as well as art, politics, philosophy, and science) is not naturally inherent to these discourses, but is the product of the social function that these discourses are institutionally granted. The aim, then, is not so much to compare literature and music, or words and sounds, but more so to place an emphasis on the impossibility of making stable distinctions between them. As Richard Middleton (1994, 313) has explained, the relationship between music and words is very complex, and is not simply reducible to a question of two poles or extremes. This is in part because, as signifying systems, music and words are not simply antithetical, as music has a syntagmatic, even narrative, aspect, and words have, for their part, a musical element. In recent years we have seen how an interest has emerged in cultural practices that had previously been ignored by the academy. This has not so much to do with the textual nature of these practices, but more so with the fact that in some areas of the academic world a change has taken place with regard to the possible ethical, political, and ideological functions that the discourses that form part of our daily lives, with effects far beyond their specific cultural field of expression which affect all the cultural products that articulate social life, may have (Talens 2000, 249). The importance and influence of the languages of contemporary popular culture have also been recognized in the university setting and they have been given a more serious and rigorous treatment. These popular discourses have drawn the attention of specialist areas within university language departments, such as literary theory and comparative literature, which have adopted a cultural studies approach that politicizes educational institutions, while at the same time it recognizes the impossibility of ultimately legitimizing new areas of study. In order to study questions related to popular urban culture, to question traditional definitions of the literary, to analyze the ways in which new technologies are changing the role of literature in our societies, or to question the delimitations of canonical or non-canonical works, a cultural studies approach needs to analyze and criticize the traditional disciplines so as to found a new critical space. To open new critical spaces, that is, with the knowledge that to do so requires a surpassing of established models of knowledge acquisition, while at the same time recognizing that much of the research and studies of popular culture take place within the fields of institutionalized production of knowledge. doi 10.1075/chlel.29.41ade © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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The field of cultural studies, for example, recognizes that the abundance of cultural codes, media, and styles of contemporary life produces subjects who can appropriate and transform the cultural world without any prior consensus from official intellectuals. The unstoppable circulation of cultural discourses has contributed much to the crisis of the old, but at the same time historical, distinction between “high” and “low” art. It is for this reason that I think it is important to insist on the necessity of surpassing the still hegemonic institutional framework that underlies our perception of the “literary,” a move that would allow us to transcend the specialized categories with which the academy conceives literature in order to grant us a wider, more critical perspective. The very existence of contemporary mass culture has had profound political ramifications, as it has allowed for new debates as to the nature of the relationship between culture and society. The “masses” have become individual historical subjects, at least in Western capitalist societies, if not so much through the representative organs of parlimentary democracy, then through the diverse modes of urban popular culture. In the diverse expressions of this popular culture, in which music plays a central role in terms of cultural capital, it is possible to exercise power through individual choice and taste. Pierre Bourdieu (1985) has shown how taste is conceived and used by social groups with the aim of differentiating and distancing themselves from others. The workings of these processes is clear in the consumption of music. The musical tastes and styles adopted by various groups of consumers are influenced and marked by an important series of social contexts, whether these are class, genre, race, or age. Musical choice is not, then, a simple process of “personal” preference but, in part, forms part of the processes of social construction. Linked to this process we have to understand the form in which musical taste is converted into symbolic and cultural capital. To adopt this perspective, I believe, allows us to detect new ways to interpret the reach of contermporary political power in daily lives.

Nueva canción and literature: Consciousness raising or an excess of symbolic value Before adopting this perspective, I will concentrate on one symptomatic example of the problematic relation between literature and music: the Spanish Nueva canción of the 1970s (I retain the Spanish and Catalan terms Nueva canción and Nova cançó, both of which can be translated as “New Song,” to refer to socially committed and folk inspired music of the second half of the twentieth century), and more specifically, its emblematic form, the Catalan Nova cançó. Through music, it is possible to see the movements that expressed opposition to the Francoist regime through the demand for a cultural, and on occasion, linguistic, renewal. Raimon, one of the principal exponents of the Nova cançó, defined his objectives as a “recuperación de la memoria colectiva” (recuperation of collective memory). The first of these non-official movements took place in Catalonia, with the public presentation of the group “Els Setzse Jutges” (The sixteen judges) on 19 December 1961 in the CICF (Centro de Información Católica Femenina) of Barcelona. This was followed by the Basque “Ez dok Amairu,” (“there is no thirteen,” “the curse of the thirteen is broken,” a phrase from a popular Basque tale), which began to form in 1965, and whose first public performances were in 1966, and included the participation of Mikel Laboa, Benito Lertxundi, Xabier Lete, Lourdes Iriondo, and others. 1968 was marked by the birth of the Nueva Canción in Spanish, and the foundation in Madrid of the “Canción del pueblo,” so-called in homage to the American “People’s song.” Finally, Xavier, Vicente Araguas, Benedicto, and

The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature509 Xerardo Moscoso, students of the University of Santiago de Compostela, created the Galician Voces ceibes (Free voices), in 1969. The Nueva canción, apart from giving voice to new ideologies, also highlighted the figure of the singer-songwriter. The prevalence of this figure, as opposed to groups, began, in the words of J. A. Artze, a “period of solitude”; the singer-songwriter stands alone on the stage, singing songs of liberty in the face of contemporary problems. It is important to note the strong influence of the Catalan Els Setze Jutges model throughout all of the Iberian Peninsula in the 1960s and 1970s. Many of the ideas about the relationship between popular music and literature in Catalonia could be applied to other parts of Iberia, even if in the Catalan, Basque, and Galician regions political and linguistic questions predominate. Often the focus on studies that investigate the relationship between urban popular music and literature in the Iberian Peninsula centers on the Nova cançó, perhaps due to the frequent use that these musicians have made of the Catalonian poetic corpus. On a geographical level, “Catalonia was the first in putting its own voice and music to its songs” (Turtós & Bonet 1998, 12). But it is worth remembering that there were other, similar, movements throughout the Iberian Peninsula at this time, such as the aforementioned Ez Dok Amairu in the Basque country, Voces ceibes in Galicia, and the Canción del pueblo and Nueva canción castellana of Castile and Andalusia. It is not surprising that the first movements arose in areas of marked nationalism, as was the case in Catalonia. In Galicia, too, Voces ceibes reappropriated Galician language poets such as Rosalía de Castro, Celso Emilio Ferreiro, Manuel María, Méndez Ferrín, and Uxío Novoneyra, reflecting the fact that the movement began with the objective of promoting Galician language and culture among the public. The same process took place in the Nueva canción castellana, and here the poets included Góngora, the Arcipreste de Hita, Miguel Hernández, Federico García Lorca, Antonio Machado, León Felipe, Celaya, Blas de Otero, and others. The Aguaviva group, for example, began with the exclusive task of setting poets to music. Now is not the time to enter into debates as to whether the most appropriate label for this movement is “Nueva canción” or “Canción.” According to the singer-songwriter Miguel Pujadó, the Nueva canción came to an end in 1970 with the emergence of the Canción: “at the start of the 1970s to speak of the ‘New’ Canción was already anachronistic. The adjective has been emptied of significance with the loss of a sense of a unified movement” (Pujadó 2000, 49). According to Joan Manuel Serrat, the date of the death of the Nueva canción has to do with political context, coinciding with the death of Franco in 1975: “The Nueva canción died the day Franco died” (quoted in Planas 1996, 10). The journalist Jordi García-Soler places this date in 1980: “From 1980 it is no longer possible to speak of the Nueva canción, fundamentally because the exigencies imposed by the anomolous circumstances in which the country found itself no longer existed” (quoted in García-Soler 1996, 106). Here the argument is also based on political context. On the other hand, for Llorenç Soldevila, the Nueva canción lasted until 1987: “I have chosen the year of 1987 to close this study, simply because I had to choose a year with which to limit the abundance of materials […] and a minimum of historic distance…and, also, because the emergence of new rock bands, […] lead us to identify a new stage of popular music in Catalan” (Soldevila 1993, 30). In any case, the presence of literature (and specifically poetry) in the Cançó has generally been understood as an attempt to bring Catalan literature to a wider and “culturally disarmed” public (as Joan Fuster wrote in the prologue of one of Raimon’s collections of poetry and songs), thanks to the unprecedented capacity for diffusion of the new media. From the perspective of literary studies, then, poetry found a new means of transmission that almost led to the conclusion that

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the printed word was no longer necessary, because with the live or recorded voice, poetry could more easily reach a public and not just some solitary lletraferits (literary types; Palomero 1997, 71). Even Joaquim Molas (university professor and architect of the twentieth-century Catalan literary canon) argued that the crisis of written poetry necessitated a return to song and orality, which would, through mass media, reach the “masses who until now have been at the margins of high-brow artistic creation” (quoted in Meseguer 1997, 173–74). More experimental and formally complex poetry would continue to circulate through traditional print media and would retain a “selecto y fiel” (select and loyal) following. This does not mean that the musicians that formed part of the Nova cançó had as their aim the education of the “masses,” or that their creativity was placed in the service of Catalan cultural and political objectives. It was a complex and plural movement, with social implications that included a vision of national renewal and a desire to create a progressive culture, the expression of political protest, and a critical appraisal of daily life. But the Nova cançó tends to be understood as artistically more elaborate than other genres of popular music, with more complex linguistic components (both thematic and rhetorical) that link it to poetry, and therefore subject it to the attention of the academically institutionalized discourses that make up literary studies. It is not unusual, for example, that the earliest exponents of the Nova cançó appear in diverse poetic anthologies under the heading “realisme històric” (historic realism) invented by Josep Maria Castellet and Joaquim Molas. The Cançó always tended, at least for those who have paid it the minimum of rigorous attention, to be considered as a more artistically elaborated and “high-brow” genre than other popular genres. Relevant here are the arguments of Miquel Pujadó in his recent and rigorously documented Diccionari de la Cançó (D’Els Setze Jutges al Rock Català) (Dictionary of Cançó: From the sixteen judges to Catalan Rock) which he dedicates “to the contemporary Catalan Cançó both auteur and high-brow, whatever its aesthetic formulation (for me, Cançó is the sung word; rock, therefore, is but another expression of the song” (Pujadó 2000, 9). It is unusual to read theoretical reflections on contemporary popular music, so this declaration of principles, an attempt to articulate theoretically the relationships between different manifestations of song, is an agreeable surprise. As we read further in the dictionary, however, and after Pujado defines Canción as an interdisciplinary genre that combines three essential elements: (a) a song-text that approximates to poetry; (b) music, and (c) interpretation (Pujadó 2000, 14–15), we realize that if Pujadó insists that every sung word is Song, and that rock and pop are simply subgenres of the wider genre of Song, in practice he establishes a series of judgement values that ultimately amount to the the argument that: the authentic equilibrium between these elements (text, music, and interpretation) is primarily limited to the Song tradition of a specific cultural and geographic zone (France, the North of Italy, and Catalonia, and in isolated cases in other territories and languages), a zone in which a high-brow Song tradition has developed that finds its roots in the troubadour tradition. (Pujadó 2000, 15)

The conclusion to which Pujado arrives is that if any sung word is Canción, then it is necessary to establish criteria by which to evaluate the different modalities of the Canción, and thereby distinguish between the good and the bad, the stupid or the intelligent, or the consumer item and the atemporal work of art:

The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature511 Throughout all the world, however, Cançó (Chanson, Canzone, Song, Canción…), let us repeat again, is the word sung. A melodic line, some words, one or more voices. All of this combined with the necessary instrumentation, and with facial or gestural interpretation. Sting is Canción, Lucio Dallo is Canción, Lou Reed is Canción, The Rolling Stones are Canción…There are good and bad Canciones, as there are good and bad novels, films, and theater. Canciones can be stupid as well as intelligent, consumer ítems or atemporal. But, before these divisions, there is Canción. Afterwards we can define stylistic subdivisions, as many as are necessary. And the labels mentioned [rock, funk, pop, etc.], sometimes useful, often absurd, or related to transitory fashions or looks without a proper analysis of contents. (Pujadó 2000, 16)

Pujadó points here, without realizing it, to one of the central arguments of the academic discussion of contemporary popular music. From the essays of Adorno on the fetishizing of music and the “regression of the ear,” the principal function attributed to contemporary popular music is commercial: it is seen as nothing more than a business, a consumer item. Despite the fact that traditional genres (classical or popular) or the “genuinely European” genre of Canción that Pujadó defines also use modern technologies in an attempt to enter the mass market, perhaps the specificity of pop and rock might be that they are precisely designed for the mass market, for a socially and geographically diverse public, whereas the other musical genres are more exclusive and are perceived as culturally valuable.

The production of meaning in contemporary popular music I began this chapter with the hackneyed question as to whether popular music deserved the same distinction or dignity as that given to poetry. It is important not to confuse, however, status with social relevance (Martí 1995). One could also ask: is contemporary poetry capable of producing an emotional impact similar to that which popular music provides today? In a collection of poems published recently by the Einuadi publishing house, Nelle galassie oggi come oggi (In today’s galaxies), three well known Italian poets set themselves the difficult task of bringing to poetry the musical practice of the “cover,” the reelaboration, as explained in the flyleaf to the volume, of a “classic” pop or rock tune by another group. Raul Montanari, Aldo Nove, and Tiziano Scarpa (2001) create poetic versions of the songs of Nirvana, Lou Reed, Pink Floyd, Japan, The Smashing Pumpkins, and The Beatles, among others. But these songs are used just as references, pre-texts for the writing of poetry. So, “Perfect Day” retains the theme of the ideal day, whereas “Smells Like Teen Spirit” discusses a boy who happens to be over fifty years of age. The importance of popular culture in the cultural make-up of writers is also reflected in contemporary Catalan literature. Dolors Oller, for example, in the prologue to her anthology, Deu poetas de ara (Ten poets of today) alludes to the fact that the spread of film, mass-media, and music between the end of the 1950s and the beginning of the 1960s meant that writers born in these years were able to access a mental and ideological space that was more open and plural (D. Oller 1996, 7). In the same way, among the younger writers, it is not unusual to encounter references to songs and figures from the world of pop and rock. Popular music, then, has in recent years managed to break down the academic and social distinctions between high and popular culture. But this is a very complex question: if we are to ask ourselves whether contemporary poetry can achieve a social relevance similar to that of contemporary popular music it is not sufficient to

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trace influences or intertextual connections between music and literature, but to try to provoke as many questions and possible lines of inquiry as possible. We should consider the social and emotional impacts of music, how and why these are generated, whether they are exclusive to popular music, and whether they can be adapted to literary creation and diffusion. Contrary to what occurs in other areas, authors who write on contemporary popular music have reflected on the ways that meaning is produced in music, as well as the aesthetic and political values of the genre. As David Hesmondhalgh (1998, 298) argues, the thought that informs the ideology of contemporary popular music, which could be summarized in series of binary oppositions — excess versus community, commerce versus creativity or art, artificiality versus authenticity, and multinationals versus independent labels — is a system of values that can be traced to the conceptions of the individual artist formulated in the romantic movements of the nineteenth century. As is well known, within romanticism philosophical and literary ideals were based on the capacity of the individual artist to express emotion derived from a personal and original interiority. Applied to popular contemporary music, these ideas allow for arguments that, for example, mark a clear distinction between rock and soul (associated with positive qualities), and, on the other hand, pop and other genres which are considered less authentic or overly commercial, and therefore less valuable. A large part of the research of one of the sociologists who has written the most penetrating analyses of contemporary popular music, Simon Frith, questions the construction of this ideology of rock, which is based on the construction of a continuous conflict between music and business. Rock spectacle is a contradictory business, according to Frith, as it is a commercially produced music for a massive audience, but at the same time linked to a criticism of commercialism and mass culture. Frith (1981, 38) writes: The problematic issue that runs (if in different ways) through the history of all forms of popular music since the development of industrial capitalism is the relationship between music as a means of popular expression and music as a means of making money. The questions raised — who makes popular music? for whom? with what effects? — are important precisely because the meanings of music are not fixed by the sounds alone, but can be disputed. […] rock fun is never really “innocent” — there are always manipulative processes involved; but neither is rock consumption necessarily therefore “passive” — rock meanings aren’t determined by their commercial means of production.

Frith proposes in this and in many other writings a series of theoretical strategies in order to break down this ideology which takes much from the English Romantic literary tradition. In an article from 1986, “Art versus technology: The strange case of popular music,” he writes: “Fans have inherited the belief that listening to someone’s music means getting to know them, getting access to their souls and sensibilities. From the folk tradition they’ve adopted the argument that musicians can represent them, articulating the immediate needs and experiences of a group or cult or community” (1986, 267). We should not forget that one of the functions of contemporary live popular music in its diverse manifestations is to bring visual pleasure to a certain level of abstraction: the exhibition of the body or the spectacle of the lights, but also to demonstrate the musical dexterity of that institution that we call “author” or “creator.” And we should remember here that one of the generic characteristics proper to pop/rock is that of the identification between author/creator and performer, an identification that does not exist in other genres — the Beatles were among the first of the pop groups of their time to begin to write

The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature513 their own songs instead of relying on the professionals of Tin Pan Alley. This is a conception of a genre in which the figures of the musician, creator, and performer coincide. This conception also forms part of the ideology of rock. Today, however, some of the most popular musical forms, such as “techno” or “dance” have put this model in crisis. Dance music inherits the logic of punk, according to which the barriers between public and author are blurred, and anyone, no matter what their musical abilities, can take to the stage and play (even if, in dance music, the very concept of “stage” is also questioned). Every musical genre has its own codes, as we have seen. In this way, every genre also corresponds to a particular spatial structure, and these characteristics contribute to the definition of the “meaning” of the musical event: the relation between this space, the public that occupies this space and the way in which they occupy it. The distance between musicians and public, between the spectators themselves, the complex dimensions of the musical event, are fundamental elements of the definition of genre, and also of the expectations of participants with regard to other generic norms: whether a concert is seated or not can often say more about the music than an explicit manifesto. Franco Fabbri defines genre as an agglomerate of events (real or possible) articulated in respect of an agglomerate of socially accepted rules, which allow us to understand how meaning is produced in music, as well at the diverse uses to which music is put. He organizes these rules in five categories: a.

formal and technical rules: each genre consists of a series of conventions in terms of performance. These include the abilities of the musicians, from the virtuosity of the heavy metal guitarist to the amateurishness of the punk rock singer, electric or acoustic instrumentation and amplification, melodic rules, timbres and rhythms, and relations between the voice and the instruments and between the words and the melody. All these rules determine whether one song or another can be ascribed or not to a genre determined by opposition; b. semiotic rules: these have to do with the construction of meaning. According to Fabbri (1996), even if it is true that all rules are semiotic, this point has to do with the more specific way in which each genre creates, through the lyrics of the songs as well as through the context of consumption, a possible world in which the listener knows how to situate himself with regard to performance. In other words, this point has to do with the articulation of an implicit ideology of a given genre with its expression; c. rules of behavior: in this section Fabbri includes all the ritualistic aspects of live performance, although one could also refer to other contexts, such as nightclubs etc. These rules of behavior are operative both for the artist (the Sopa de Cabra [Goat soup] group perform the “truth” of their misic through sweat, the gestures of their guitars, and physical force of their performance, whereas Albert Pla, for example, who sings sitting down, marks a distance from the traditional staging of singer-songwriters, as well as that of rock lead singers) as well as the public (Sau fans do not act in the same way as those of Sangtraït); d. social and ideological rules: if, as Fabbri points out, each genre contructs its ideal audience, these rules have the purpose of defining the nature of this community and its relation to the rest of the social world (heavy metal, punk, or rap tend to be seen as socially transgressive as compared to other genres). The parameters of “authenticity,” for example, as we have already seen, are the principal axis of rock mythology (rock as rebellion, counterculture, a legitimacy alternative to that of the establishment, etc.); and

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juridical and commercial: given that dependence on the market is one of the characteristics of contemporary popular music, questions related to the commercialization of music also form part of the definition of genre (Fabbri 1996, 17–32).

What is the purpose of lyrics in popular music Taking these general rules into account, we can see that the role of lyrics in most genres of popular music is relatively minor. However, as Simon Frith observes, in analyzing popular music there is always the temptation to analyze the words while ignoring other aspects, such as the music itself: the words can be reproduced in commentary relatively easily, and rhymes are more easily understood than chord changes. There has been a mistaken tendency, then, on the part of the experts in popular music to use hackneyed analyses of lyrical content and to leave out analysis of the music itself. Every analysis of popular music as a cultural form has to recognize that this music’s essential effect, though not its exclusive one, has to do with sound (Frith 1978, 176). According to Frith, in popular contemporary music the words are the sign of a voice. A song is always a performance, and its words always represent an explicit affirmation, expressed with an individual accent. Songs are more similar to script than to poetry: the words of the songs function as language and a linguistic act, and transmit meaning not only semantically, but also as sonorous structures that constitute direct forms of emotion and other characteristics. Singers rely on both verbal and non-verbal instruments to achieve their expressive aims (emphasis, breath, changes of tone); the texts are as much pleas, insults, and orders as they are affirmations, messages, and narratives (a motive for the relevance, during the 1960s, of groups and singers such as the Beatles or Bob Dylan, whose lyrics many European listeners did not understand). It is because of this, according to Frith, that in the textual analysis of songs we have to inevitably refer to the conventions of the spectacle in which the words are used to grant meaning both to the singer and to ourselves as listeners. In determining that which the singers mean for us it is necessary to go beyond the words that they sing; we also have to take into account our position as listeners, as well as the way in which, and the place in which, the song is performed. From a very different perspective, Michel Chion, in a section of his book Musiques, médias et technologies entitled “Popular song as practice,” affirms that, today, when we talk about music we often confuse two diverse fields beyond those of any question of style or genre: “the song, which is based on a text, despite being elemental, and the instrumental music, without words” (1996, 88). According to Chion (1996, 88) , these two genres are not ruled by the same laws nor are they represented in the same way in different cultural categories of music: In this way, the so-called “avant-garde” music on many occasions uses literary tests. On the other hand, popular forms are usually songs, based on texts that are sentimental, erotic, political, sociological, comical, or surrealist…The “surrealism” of the Beatles and the Doors was expressed in some of their arrangments and melodies, but, abover all, in some of the words of John Lennon or Jim Morrison.

What conclusions can we draw from Chion’s words? That the content, the energy, the expression of these works and the culture that these works transmit have a close relationship to the contents of the texts sung. According to Chion, this is the case because the creativity of this type of music (the popular songs), whatever the channel through which it is transmitted, whether radio

The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature515 or audiovisual media, lies not so much in the originality of the melodies, but in the delicacy of timbre, and the arrangements and rhythmical accompaniment. Almost always, Chion continues, these songs are at the same time rhythmical and adapted to dance, with the bass heavily accentuated, as modern technology allows. The performer, or the performers, whether in live spectacles, or on television and music videos, dance while they sing. Simon Frith goes much further, however. He thinks that in speaking of the meaning of music it is necessary to speak of questions of identity and public, which implies questions of categorization (different people use different types of music to experience different types of community; the diverse forms of popular music — techno, pop, salsa, heavy metal, rock, etc. — interpellating their listeners and placing them in distinct narratives of desire). These reflections oblige us to ask ourselves how the interpellations of contemporary popular music work, and in what ways analyzing these interpellations can help us to understand the construction of social identities that music allows. Some theorists have attempted to explain this process by arguing that popular music is a specific type of cultural tool that supplies individuals with elements that can be used in the formation of social identity. In this way, sound, words, and performance offer models for ways of being and behaving, and also models for psychological and emotional satisfaction. Richard Middleton (1994, 329) is of the same opinion as Frith, although the Scottish sociologist points out that popular music has more interpellative potential than other forms of popular culture, such as television, cinema, or literature ifself, given that music allows for appropriation for personal use on a much more intense level. We could ask ourselves again here why music has become so important for the creation of a social imaginary. Frith offers an explanation, distinguishing four functions of popular music in relation to everyday life: 1.

popular music allows people to situate themselves socially in a space, drawing the lines between groups that, because they share an urban space, are not territorially defined. Music is used to resolve questions of identity, and allows for inclusion in and exclusion from a community. Its power as an instrument of identification derives from the directness, sensuality, and immediacy of the sonic experience; 2. popular music proffers a way to manage the relationship between our public and private experiences; it gives form and voice to sentiments and experiences that could not be expressed in another way; 3. popular music shapes memory and organizes our sense of time. In some cases it intensifies our experience of the present, while in others it helps us to remember the past; and 4. music is a very personal appropriation for its consumers. Songs become “their” songs. It is for this reason a means that is especially efficient in the integration of social functions related to the construction of individual identity and the social imaginary.

The meaning of contemporary popular music Contemporary popular music, like literature, cinema, or television, is yet another of the multiple social discourses that make up our world, and its reception, its reading, configures us as subjects and individuals, and helps construct the content of our everyday lives. Because of this it is an important agent in the transmission of culture and in ideological reproduction; it projects the sounds and images (identities and identifications) through which we configure our lives and

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attitudes. This means that we human beings are not simple instruments of languages that we passively receive. These languages form us, but we, for our part, also form and influence these languages, an exchange which implies that the discursive exchange that is music allows for processes of mutual self-constitution. The multiple codes that operate in a musical spectacle (with some of these not strictly musical: the codes of theatre, dance, language…) would explain the importance and complexity of music as an interpellator of identities. It is here that we can find the principal difference between music and other, less polysemic, expressions of popular culture. Among the possible conditions for the reception of music, one of the most important is the concert, as it combines diverse elements, such as: (1) the focalization of the act, directed toward the figure of the performer, who can in fact play with this situation, at times directing the attention back to the audience; (2) the identification with the performer, visible in the similar demographics of the audience and the play of mimetic behaviors between the group or performer and the audience; and (3) the importance of a movement towards a climax, designed to give an integrated, total experience of the situation. Each musical genre combines these aspects in different ways and, in consequence, allows the interaction between musicians and their public to be unique. In a popular music concert the aim is not simply to listen, but to arrive at a situation of participation between those who are on stage and those who are in the audience. Music becomes then a necessary mediation to put ito action all these parts according to the characteristics of each musical genre. As Middleton (1994, 173) explains, because sound is also a system of multiple strata and varied codes, music has the power to interpellate diverse subjects. This is one of the characteristics proper to popular music that is central for an understanding of how music produces meaning. The individuals who habitually listen to popular music are not overly concerned with its intrinsic meaning; rather, they are concerned with what the music means for them. What I am suggesting is that if the meaning of music does not reside in the interior of the musical discourse (neither in the text nor in the sound), the only alternative is to locate it in the contradictory discourses through which people give meaning to, and use, music. This perspective is interesting as it amounts to a poststructuralist approach, in the sense that it implies that the meaning of music in not intrinsically linked to sound and word. To think otherwise would be to imagine that the meaning of music, which is a social construction, would be non-negotiable, defined once and for all, and without the possibility of articulation. Middleton (1994, 337) has lucidly explained the centrality of concepts such as “articulation” (construction of subjectivity) and “interpellation” for the understanding of the production of meaning in popular music, as well as music’s role in the creation of social identities. According to Middleton, the function of contemporary popular music has not been so much to reflect social reality but to offer forms in which people can value and enjoy identities that they desire or that they believe they possess. As in other cultural discourses, such as literature, theatre, or cinema, popular music is also an important part of the production and manipulation of subjectivity. If social identity is based on a continuous struggle with regard to the meaning of social relations and social position within a given society, this does not mean that the words and lyrics of songs are irrelevant in this struggle for meaning. But it is necessary to take into account that lyrics are just one element, to which can be added the diverse generic and discursive rules that circulate within society and interpellate individuals in distinct ways.

The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature517 In the song “Jo no soc polac” (I am not a Pole), for example, considered one of the first manifestations of hip-hop culture in Catalan, Alex Martínez, “El Disop,” a rapper from L’Hospitalet, clearly expresses his dismay at feeling like a charnego (immigrant worker) in Catalonia and a polaco (a pejorative term for Catalans used in the rest of Iberia) in the rest of the state, given that his mother is from Lleida and his father from Murcia. His lyrics allow us to understand the sentiments of many young people who live in the Barcelonan hinterland, and the absence of an expression of their daily lives in the discourse of Catalan officialdom. “El Disop” raps: No, jo no sóc polac tio, m’entens? Jo no sóc polac, sí, sí Per la meva gent, ritmes fresques, catalanes, mon pare és de Totana, ma mare lleidatana, xarnego saps?, com molta gent d’aquesta terra, munts d’immigrants patint misèries, degut a la guerra, és llei de vida, està escrit a la història lluites fraternals, noves línies divisòries per omplir mapes, per omplis uns textos, la tercera està a la web però no canviem els gestos què passa? Els polítics no reaccionen l’atur no baixa, total, més armament gestionen no se n’adonen del que la gent demana fora guerres, nació global, humanitat germana fora prejudicis, tant de sexe com de raça fora estúpids que arriben a les mans per un Madrid-Barça. Aquí què cony passa? La gent s’ha tornat boja o poc els hi falta però bé, què hi farem?, les coses amb calma baralles pel futbol, mentre la gent la palma la set del nou món calmarà les tensions dediquem-nos a l’esport i així pau per a tothom! Sí. Jo no sóc polac, jo sóc català, Jo no sóc polac, jo sóc català, Jo no sóc polac, jo sóc català, i si no t’agrada, que et donin pel sac! Partit nacionalista no es més que un feixista, augmenta les fronteres i els peatges a l’autopista. No sóc ni marxista ni anarquista Em cago en la dreta i en la esquerra separatista. Que quedi clar: els meus amics son andalusos però nascuts a Catalunya la burgesia catalana en l´extraradi es trunya i no és ninguna conya, la penya para compte perquè el barri ensenya i tant! barallant-se com a gossos per menjar-se el filet més gran no es donen compte del que està passant. La meitat de Catalunya la forma el sud de Espanya els partits separatistes no sé de què s’estranyen amb declaracions estranyes que sempre porten cua, a la classe treballadora la independència se la sua.

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518 Jo no sóc polac, jo sóc català, Jo no sóc polac, jo sóc català, Jo no sóc polac, jo sóc català, i si no t’agrada, que et donin pel sac! Sí, sí, sí, que, què passa? De quin pal aneu, eh cabrons? Jo no sóc polac Yo no soy polaco, coño Pa que me entiendas, vale? Que estic ja fins als collons tio! Ni un extrem ni un altre, ni feixistes, ni independentistes tothom bon rotllo amb tothom les coses aniran més bé, saps el que vull dir?1

It is possible to make many readings of this song. We could be content to take it at face value. But we can also make other interpretations and connect this song with some of the music groups that have arisen in the suburban areas of Barcelona. This reading would connect the rap to the expression of those second- or third-generation descendents of immigrants and their experiences of marginalization in the Catalan autonomous region, groups who feel that they do not have a voice that represents them, and that their own, different, voices are in danger of forever remaining unheard.

1.

I’m not a polac buddy, you understand? / I’m not a polac, yes, yes, / for my people, fresh rhythms, in catalan, / my father is from Totona, my mother from Lerida, / a charnego, don’t you know?, like many people from around here, / mountains of immigrants, suffering, due to the war, / it’s the law of life, written in the history / of fraternal struggles, new dividing lines / to fill maps, to fill texts, / the third is on the web but the gestures don’t change / what’s going on here? Politicians don’t react / unemployment doesn’t fall, total, but they increase arms / they don’t pay attention to what the people want / apart from war, global nation, humanity / apart from prejudices, both of sex and race / apart from morons who play into their hands for a Madrid-Barcelona match. / What the fuck is going on here? People have either gone insane or are just about to / But that’s ok, what can we do? take things calmly / You fight for football, while the people applaud / the new world will calm all tensions / we’ll dedicate ourselves to sport and then we’ll have world peace! Yes. // I’m not a Pole, I’m Catalan / I’m not a Pole, I’m Catalan / I’m not a Pole, I’m Catalan / and if you don’t like it you can shove it! // The nationalist party is nothing but fascist, / it raises borders as well as the tolls on the highway. / I’m neither Marxist nor Anarchist / I shit on the right as well as the separatist left. / Just so things remain clear: my friends are Andalucians born in Catalonia / the Catalan bourgeosie in the suburbs / and this is not bullshit, the people understand, they learn it from the streets / fighting like dogs for the best meat / they don’t understand what’s going on. / Half of Catalonia is made up of the south of Spain / the separatist parties I don’t know of what they are scared / with their strange declarations always with a sting in the tail, / for the working classes independence exploits them. // I’m not a Pole, I’m Catalan, / I’m not a Pole, I’m Catalan, / I’m not a Pole, I’m Catalan, / and if you don’t like it, you can shove it! // Yes, yes, yes, what’s going on? / Where you going, eh you bastards? / I’m not a polac / I’m not a fucking polish. // You understand me, right? / I’m so sick of this buddy! / Not one extreme or the other, / neither fascists nor separatists / with everyone getting on together / things will be better, / you know what I mean?

The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature519 It is also useful to understand that rap (as just one more contemporary cultural manifestation) has become, in some way, not so much an expression of difference, but a very condition for the possibility of expressing the vision of life of young people in our cities. Many young people in the cities and neighborhoods of the metropolitan area of Barcelona — we could list here El Prat Rubí, Cornellà, L’Hospitalet, etc. — have found in rap music and hip-hop culture an escape valve and a way in which they can make sense of their culture and environment. These are young people who feel themselves capable of articulating with their rhymed stories their condition as sons and daughters of immigrants, but also, of expressing this experience in the hegemonic (in terms of popular music) discourse of rap, a new identificatory tool that allows them to feel proud of their pluricultural identity, an identity that is dialogical and subversive, and which is often hidden in official discourse. Rubi’s group, Sólo los Solo (Only one), for example, explain on their website that they feel themselves the spokesmen of: People who are anonymous, the reality of the other Catalonia, the “underground” that does not appear on TV3. For these, and for nobody else, they have made “Retorno al Principio” (Return to the Start), an homage to the popular roots of the urban neighborhoods of Spain, as varied as the types who hang out in the street corner pool halls, so mature and strange that they are universal. In the “palorro,” the talent of the suave and talented Griffi and the mastery of the “iberofunkhispanicoestilo” of Juan Solo on the microphone, mean that all the musical elements sound natural, as on the street itself: flamenco, rumbita, salsa in the latin flavor, funk, jazz, the orchestrations of fantasy.

Conclusion My objective here has been to try to explore the relationship between music and literature. Often it is through words that meanings are expressed, but there is always something more — music, gestures, attitudes, and interpellations. We have also tried to show that through the use of cultural forms from other cultural contexts (as in the case of rap, rock, and pop), mechanisms of identity formation are created, which allow for the self-expression of certain groups of young people who, because of their background and position within the Catalan urban environment, often feel a lack of cultural, political, and social agency. Their appropriation of popular musical forms can allow us to understand the mechanisms through which a cultural imaginary is formed, which, instead of being a sonic version of “cultural imperialism,” can be a powerful agent in the formation of collective identities. We might ask ourselves, ultimately, whether the study of literature can benefit from these ideas. In a direct manner, no. The literary system, as it structured now, is not very open to changes that could compromise its conception of the literary. I believe, however, that it would be of benefit to literary studies if literature ceased to be studied as a singular cultural practice, and if its works were placed in relation to other discourses, such as those of popular music. This would allow us to recognize that literature is just one more signifying practice, and that it is necessary to study it as a complex intertextual phenomenon, connected not only with literary tradition, but with the other verbal, visual, or sonic discourses that surround us every day.

“Light changes the placement of things” Immigration, gender, and resistance in hip-hop music María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar In the year 2005, the singer Buika released an eponymous album, which showcased musical influences as varied as jazz, bolero, tango, Spanish couplets, and hip-hop. Buika is a second generation Guinean immigrant, born in Majorca and influenced by gypsy culture from a young age. In the chorus of her first single, titled “New Afro Spanish Generation,” she declares: “I’m not American, / in my blood runs neither / the gypsy race / nor is there white inside.”1 It is undoubtedly a sign of the times that the spokesperson of the Afro-Hispanic New Generation chooses to characterize herself in terms of everything she is not, and refuses to limit herself to any one identity (“I am filled with desire / to feel the motherland / in the center of the earth”2). From the point of view of explicit discourse, Buika’s renunciation of the essentialism of certain ethnic and national markers is clear. From the point of view of musical practice, the album adopts and integrates cultural legacies as ethnically charged as flamenco and soul. The occasional use of English throughout her lyrics nudges the linguistic code towards Spanglish, one of the stamps of latin hip-hop. In some ways, roots music uproots, as if in order to demonstrate the complexity, as well as the character — in some ways paradoxical — of the relations between nation and territory (“Solitude comes without homeland / where it catches you it kills you”). When it became time to define Buika’s style, the music industry press created labels such as Afro-flamenco and Flamenco negro. Beyond their commercial functioning and obedience to marketing strategies, these labels constitute a reflection on the complex and changing social fabric that characterizes the contemporary Peninsular sphere, which is notably affected by factors such as migratory movements and the inclusion of women in new professional roles. Ultimately, these songs manifest the clear gender consciousness exhibited by Buika — not only as a performer, but also as a composer, in addition to being the author of the lyrics and responsible for the album concept. In certain lyrics the singer attempts to develop alternatives to the predominant heterocentrism of most popular music. Thus, in “Little Freaky Girl,” a song in which the Canarian funk singer África Gallego (Mojo Project) also participates, the feminine voice constructs an amorous discourse addressed to a subject of the same sex, enabling a homoerotic interpretation of the lyrics and transcending the closed system “masculine subject/ feminine object,” not to mention its automatic inversion as a “feminine subject/masculine object” relation.

1.

“No soy americana, / no llevo en la sangre / ni raza gitana / ni paya llevo por dentro.”

2.

“Me da la gana / de sentir la madre patria / en el centro de la tierra.” doi 10.1075/chlel.29.42vil © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Immigration, gender, and resistance in hip-hop music521 Hip-hop as a structure of feeling Buika’s work highlights the two variables (gender and migratory movements) that are pertinent to the hip-hop movement in the Iberian Peninsula. The choice of object is by no means coincidental, nor is the light in which it is examined. On the one hand, hip-hop is distinguished from other musical styles precisely due to the fact that it cannot be reduced to solely stylistic coordinates. Like rock or punk, its development since the late seventies has formed a culture understood not only as an aesthetic expression, but above all as a way of life. Simply put, hip-hop is not only musical expression (made up of MCing, or rapping, and DJing, or turntabling); it also includes many other elements, such as breakdancing and graffiti. With this wider understanding it is possible to connect hip-hop culture to what Raymond Williams (1977) termed a “structure of feeling.” Williams attempted to qualitatively characterize the way in which life is experienced within a certain spatial-temporal context. Accordingly, the “structure of feeling” operates as the least tangible dimension of cultural practices, but at the same time is quite defined and recognizable, as the word “structure” indicates. His understanding of the concept as “social experience” allows him to rescue the term Zeitgeist (spirit of the times) from its idealist connotations. The structure of feeling is not, however, identifiable with the culture of a given moment in history. Rather, it is the aggregate of the perceptions and values shared by a generation that finds its clearest expression in artistic forms. In later approaches to the term, Williams stresses the complexity of the relationship between “ideology” and “experience,” and argues that the differentiated structures of feeling are in bi-univocal correspondence with the differentiated social classes — an observation which is completely pertinent for an analysis of hip-hop. One need only reflect on the interest the US music industry has in dissociating the movement from the sociopolitical demands of the Afroamerican population, and its tendency to convert hip-hop into a mere fashion. The classic example of the media success of Vanilla Ice, despite his general discredit among black rappers, clearly illustrates the area of tension between the authentic and the mass-oriented, and prevents a one-way understanding of certain cultural practices. From the strictly musical point of view, the capacity of hip-hop to fuse itself with other genres (ska, reggae, techno), as well as the inverse of this — the way in which any musical genre can be translated into the language of hip-hop — are characteristics which point to the fact that it has become the generational referent and paradigm of today’s youth culture. Buika’s work, referred to at the outset of these pages, exemplifies the extent to which the vocal technique of rap and other sonorous procedures such as “scratch” are increasingly included in the normal technological repertoire used by Peninsular musicians.

Urban lyricism: The last poets In a study on hip-hop culture in the US, S. H. Fernando (1995) referred to the members of the hip-hop movement as the “New Beats.” In bridging the gap between rap and the North American poetry of the second half of the twentieth century, the author recognized the importance of lyrics in rap, and the fact that its authors often prided themselves on being poets — or, more fittingly — “antipoets.” “The Last Poets” had been the name of the one of the most influential hip-hop

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groups on the East Coast, and the proclamation of a new (or final) lyricism by some of the agents connected to hip-hop would arrive even to the Peninsular setting, with formations such as “Los Violadores del Verso” (Rapers of the verse), “Los Trovadores de la Lírica Perdida” (The troubadours of the lost poetry), or “El Club de los Poetas Violentos” (The violent poet’s society). To some extent, these forms of urban lyricism have begun to take the place of the singersongwriter, incorporating contents which are generally paradoxically neglected by social and political poetry and converting the rhyme into a “weapon of mass construction,” as Concha Buika puts it in conversation with Juan Jesús García (2005). The declarations of the poet Seamus Heaney, lauding Eminem’s verbal prowess, constitute an expressive endorsement of the progressive attention given to the movement by cultural agents connected to codes and traditions which enjoy more institutional strength (although less commercial and media influence). During the inauguration of the Prince of Wales Educational Summer School (Norwich), and prompted by a reporter to give the name of a figure in the contemporary folk scene comparable — in the poetic dimension of his or her lyrics — to Bob Dylan or John Lennon, Heaney (2003) responded: “There is this guy Eminem. He has created a sense of what is possible. He has sent a voltage around a generation. He has done this not just through his subversive attitude but also his verbal energy.” This “literary” dimension of hip-hop and its “verbal energy,” have, since its origins, allowed it to become one of the most powerful mechanisms for articulating alternatives to hegemonic power structures. Genealogically it is resistance music, related to genres of North American black culture such as the blues, jazz, or soul. Hip-hop’s relation to the historical movements of civil rights struggles became clear in the 1980s. In 1984, Keith le Blanc used speeches by Malcolm X in “No Sell Out,” clearly demonstrating that the reappropriation of earlier material, through quotation, does not necessarily imply its conversion into an object of nostalgia, devoid of political potential. In the words of Peter Brook (1995, 138), “as every athlete knows, repetition eventually brings about change.” In postmodern theory, it has been argued that hip-hop is an exemplary working out of ideas surrounding hybridization, recycling, and auto-reference, especially given its use of the sampler, which permits the electronic insertion of music other than that of the primary track (Potter 1995). In many analyses of sampling technique, understood as a form of intertextuality, the fact that hip-hop is not a style — as we have already pointed out — is overlooked. It can, however, be used as a style, and an attentive reflection on the forms of hip-hop helps to comprehend the way in which musical forms can align themselves with certain ends and meanings. In spite of what immanentist musicology seems to suggest — characterized by what we might denominate “stylistic essentialism” — hip-hop does not confer “a purer sense to the words of the tribe.” It is not purity, but rather contamination, that serves as the true insignia of the movement.

Poetics and politics of rap: Some objection to the extension of the political The exportation of US hip-hop to other contexts has tested its potential as a vehicle for different responses to power relationships in new contexts of reception. In this sense, it is not surprising that cultural studies tends to assign a political character to the movement, protected by a sometimes abusive generalization of the term “political.” It is in this context that John Street challenges the classic analysis of Tricia Rose (1994) with regard to the political aspects of rap, distinguishing

Immigration, gender, and resistance in hip-hop music523 between explicit aspects, present in the lyrical content, and implicit or hidden aspects, present in the struggle to access the public space by agents connected to the movement. According to John Street (1997, 43): The problem with this extended definition of politics is that it can lead to the claim that “everything is political,” which, while it has some rhetorical force in that it exposes the ubiquitous intervention and influence of interests and values, does not help us to distinguish between types of political value and forms of political interest. It does not recognize that how the public/private split is conceptualized or judged is itself the subject of competing claims. Although making sense of the politics of popular culture means recognizing the permeability or artificiality of the divide between the public and the private, it does not help to conclude, therefore, that all popular culture is political and to use the word “politics” to refer to anything and everything. Applying the words “politics” and “political” to all aspects of popular culture adds very little to our understanding, to our sense of what is changed or can be changed by popular culture, about whose or what interests are involved, and why.

Another possible risk in sociological approaches to contemporary popular music, closely related to the banalization of the term “political,” has been the overestimation of the capacity of cultural forms to effectively and immediately influence the social world. This perspective is quite clear in work by scholars such as Jeremy Gilbert and Ewan Pearson (1999, 184), whose affective involvement with the object of study seems to translate to an enthusiastic, and at times uncritical, celebration of its reach. Thus, their monograph on dance culture (where musical movements such as hip-hop, house, techno, drum’n bass, and garage are included) closes by using the Gramscian “optimism of the will” to synthesize the contribution of new music to a hypothetical improvement of the contemporary world’s sociopolitical difficulties.

Hip-hop nation, nations of hip-hop: Popular music and migratory movements in the Iberian Peninsula The study of hip-hop in the Iberian Peninsula poses several challenges for researchers of popular culture. In the first place, Peninsular development of hip-hop starts from an apparent paradox that is repeated in the movement’s emergence in Latin America, Africa, and Quebec. The question that must be asked is up to what point can a sense of resistance be preserved in the process of importing music to a context in which residual, hegemonic, and emergent forms occupy quite distinctive positions. I employ the terms “residual,” “hegemonic,” and “emergent” here in the way that they are used by Raymond Williams (1982). Anki Toner (1998, 111) makes references to the above- mentioned paradox in the following passage: American hip-hop, for the first time in the history of black music, shows itself to be proud of its past, it drinks from its sources. Any attempt to make hip-hop in Spain (and in any place outside of the United States) departs from exactly the inverse premise. It deals with being proud of past there, not here. It deals with a renunciation, at the first place, of all the inherited cultural baggage of the Mediterranean, European, and Arabian cultures, in order to place itself under the improbable influence of Afroamerican culture. It deals with renouncing one’s own cultural substratum with thousands of years of antiquity in order to attempt to approach another one that is scarcely a few decades old. It is, without a doubt, an exercise in alienation.

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Despite their indubitable interest, these observations must be linked to a specific state in the development of Peninsular hip-hop, which, since the year 2000, has been going through a process of transformation. This transformation has to do with, among other reasons, the incorporation of roots music like flamenco to the genre. If cultural globalization is seen here as an effect of economic capitalism, the global diffusion of an artistic modality originating in the US cannot but be interpreted as the effect of power relations that take place outside of the artistic realm. Often, in the transfer of practices and contexts, the sense of the original resistance of hip-hop is lost, and it becomes a matter of imitating certain modes and styles whose contribution to the welfare of the oppressed classes is, at the very least, questionable, as in the case of the exaltation of the values of Gansta rap (ganster iconography, with messages which laud the rapid acquisition of wealth and follow an aesthetic known as bling bling, based on ostentatious wealth). The correlate of this attitude in the realm of musical composition is the ego-centered character, avant la lettre, the discourse of soloists such as Payo Malo or Mucho Muchacho, the latter proclaiming in his last album — if any doubts remained — that “El rap en el Prat no tiene mensaje” (Rap in the Prat has no message). One aspect which is undeniably important in the understanding of Peninsular hip-hop is the unstable distribution of linguistic variables, which allows for the mapping of complex sets of identity relations. It is interesting, in this regard, to consider the significance that Afroamerican intellectuals have granted the term nation, which is almost always understood in a non-territorial sense, and to offset this usage with the progressive appearance of hip-hop within the national borders of the Iberian Pensinsula. The Hip-hop Nation, a term which the members of the movement use to describe themselves, has here been fragmented into multiple nations. With regard to the rap performed in Spanish, one discovers a koine conditioned by the assimilation of Americanisms, the product of the influence of Cuban and Dominican rappers. Certainly, the linguistic diversity of the Spanish spoken in cities such as Madrid, Barcelona, Zaragoza, Seville, and Valencia allows for the introduction of a greater number of linguistic variants. In the stateless national formations in the Iberian Peninsula the movement alternates between the use of Spanish and the adoption of languages such as Galician, Catalan, and Basque. In the Basque Country, the tradition of “radical Basque rock,” as it is called, is largely in Spanish, and this helps explain the use of Castilian by hip-hop groups sharing the same political tendencies. Furthermore, one must keep in mind that Basque nationalism has traditionally used other elements of identity characterization which make the “language-nation” metonym function less strongly than in Catalonia or Galicia. At any rate, it is nonetheless quite revealing that the singer África (Entzun, 2004), of Guinean background, has opted to alternate English with Basque in her hip-hop and R&B. Her defense of a negritud afrovasca (Afrobasque blackness) adds new ethnic markers to Basque culture. In Galicia, Os Resentidos (The resentful ones) had occasionally incorporated rap phrasing into the Galician language in the 1980s, making themselves into authentic pioneers of the hip-hop movement in the Spanish state. Nevertheless, contemporary rap from the city of Vigo (the resurgence of which in recent years is this time related to African and Brazilian immigration) has mainly been in Spanish. However, groups from Santiago such as Non Residentz make use of Galician and Portuguese in their lyrics. Other projects such as Dios Ke te Krew (God who created you) imply a unique connection between hip-hop — traditionally considered to be an unmistakably urban music — and the Galician rural and semi-rural environment, and

Immigration, gender, and resistance in hip-hop music525 above all, life in the vilas (small towns). In recent years, the town of Ordes, in the province of A Coruña, has become the reference point for understanding current hip-hop development in the Galician language. In 2001, several groups from Ordes released a self-funded album entitled Mixtura. Among rap representatives, the group 5Talegos (Five bucks) stands out, as well as Os Ghamberros (The vandals). Beginning in the late 1980s, hip-hop’s evolution in the Peninsula tended to mirror centerperiphery relationships. The first hip-hop albums produced in Spanish territory take Madrid as the explicit reference (Madrid Hip-Hop, in 1989 or Rap in Madrid, in 1990, for example). With Rap de aquí (Rap from here, 1990) musicians from Barcelona and Zaragoza join the scene. Groups such as Nazion Sur (Andalusia), Parafunk (Donosti), and Eat Meat (Catalonia) are proof of a relative decentralizing of the movement, although the dominant expressive language continues to be Spanish. Even today, with Barcelona being one of the most powerful loci of Peninsular hip-hop, the use of Catalan by rappers is clearly a minority phenomenon. Undoubtedly, the main reason stems from the demographic make-up of the outlying cities of Barcelona (mainly El Prat and L’Hospitalet de Llobregat, which constitute the movement’s main engines), which serve as shelters for first- or second-generation immigrants from Andalucia, Extremadura, and most recently Latin America whose first language is Spanish. Catalan groups such as Geronación, connected to smaller cities, use Spanish as a vehicle in their lyrics of social condemnation (“Liberty is the space / between the bars / also referred to as a state of well-being”3). Interestingly, one of the first successes of hip-hop in the Catalan language was the famous “Jo no sóc polac” (I am not a Pole) by the rapper Disop in 1999, who criticized discrimination against immigrants in Catalonia, while at the same time choosing Catalan as the linguistic vehicle for his outrage. The singer himself has referred several times to the paradoxical position in which his linguistic choice places him. In Catalonia, Disop’s openly anti-nationalist lyrics were the object of controversy. In Madrid, rhyming in a language that was not Spanish was considered to be eccentric, if not openly defiant (a notion that undoubtedly carries on into the present).

Women in Peninsular hip-hop. Immigration and gender Applied to musicology, feminist studies have frequently opted for a focus called “compensatory history,” which attempts to consign and grant recognition to the contributions of women in the musical sphere, as a counterweight to the histories that have articulated a primarily heterocentric canon of performers. The goal of these studies is to deconstruct the concept of “musical canon” and analyze the motives for feminine exclusion. In studies on the role of women in popular music a preference has been placed on rock, owing in large part to the importance of the sex/gender continuum in its lyrics (Bayton 1998; McRobbie 1990; Frith & McRobbie 1990). One of the risks in applying this compensatory focus to the study of Peninsular hip-hop would be to substitute defense for description or for criticism, under the implicit assumption that belonging to a sexual gender assures aesthetic or ethical value. 3.

“La libertad es el espacio / que hay entre reja y reja / también llamado estado del bienestar.”

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On the other hand, the explicit assumption of a gender consciousness in the lyrics of many hip-hop singers is an aspect worth examining, above all because the relationship between immigration and gender is often thematized in an extremely relevant manner in the lyrics of female authors. Up until now, I have referred to the the effects of exterior immigration — to a large extent Latin American and African — on the development of the hip-hop movement in the Peninsula. But the migratory movements within the state have also left their mark upon various Peninsular groups and singers. A paradigmatic case can be found in “Mala Rodríguez.” Raised between Seville and Jerez de la Frontera, “La Mala María” (The bad María) arrived on the Madrid rap scene near the end of the nineties. Her music clearly points to flamenco influences, as can be seen in her albums Lujo Ibérico (Iberian luxury, 2000) and Alevosía (Treachery, 2003). The verbal energy which Seamus Heaney had praised in Eminem glimmers in María Rodríguez as well, whose lyrics often rely on ingenuity (“Fright was born when dynamite was born,” “You’ve got to be better than the bad ones”4). She creates an almost baroque lyricism that deliberately plays with double meanings: “Yo con mucha hambre y tú con mucho pan” (I’m starving, and you’ve got lots of bread), and makes expressive use of rhetorical figures like paronomasia: “Sólo toco lo que me toca” (I only touch what touches me). Her deliberately ironic use of rhyme goes without saying; it is an element that is not common in Peninsular hip-hop — which often appears to frown on the humorous potential of the nonsensical rhyme. Take for example the following passage of “En mi ciudad hace caló” (It’s hot in my city), the metapoetic character of which is indicative of La Mala’s idiosyncratic style: In my lyrics I speak of action of ham of corruption of police of courage of cockiness of boiling blood and cold blood rhyming I tune my aim below and above.5

Irony also stretches to certain rap consumers, serving as a vehicle for severe criticism that reflects the tension between the emergent character of the hip-hop movement and its conversion into “fashion” by certain groups (“Ask those miserable / posh innocents, now what do you want to be / guilty of? / of dancing to rap, of listening to rap? / you’re going to wipe out the desire for rap”6). The Lujo Ibérico album “Especias y especies” (Spices and species), begins with the initial motto “with good intentions you don’t do anything,” performed in duet by María Rodríguez and 4.

“Nació el susto cuando nació la dinamita,” “Hay que ser más bueno que los malos.”

5.

“En mis letras hablo de acción, / de jamón, / de corrupción, / de policía, / de coraje, / de chulería, / de sangre caliente / y de sangre fría, / rimando afino yo mi puntería / por abajo / y por arriba.”

6.

“Pregúntales a estos miserables: / pijas inocentes, ahora queréis ser culpables / de qué? de bailar rap, de escuchar rap, / vais a erradicar las ganas de rap.”

Immigration, gender, and resistance in hip-hop music527 Kamikaze. The lyrics link together a series of sayings, maxims, and proverbs, whose recurrent use causes interesting semantic slips according to their placement, culminating in the epiphany “No es por lo que mueras / es por lo que vives” (It’s not what you die for / it’s what you live for). In her compositions María Rodríguez assimilates an entire legacy of popular and anonymous verbal creation which replaces the aforementioned ego-centric character of other approaches in order to shift the poetic material to the area of shared wisdom: Use your eyes Don’t play dirty Go slowly Don’t step in if it’s not your turn Use your head Before using your mouth […] Do everything you can At the right time Certain things aren’t forgotten The wind carries words away You have to be calm Enjoy your moment Play your hand Stay on guard, everything turns Everything returns Everything is a lie There are dogs that bark and bite There are lucky days There are days that never end.7

With regard to the thematization of gender roles, songs like “La cocinera” (The cook) (“Soy la cocinera / de tus mejores platos” [I’m the cook / of your best dishes]) or “Yo marco el minuto” (I mark the minute) express a playful celebration of pleasure, far from the fetichization of the woman as object of distant desire, nevertheless present on other tracks of Lujo Ibérico such as “Tambalea” (Shake).” The lyrics of Alevosía (2003) delve into the proverbial dimension of “La Mala’s” first album, while preserving her spirit of resistance. Take for example, “Lo fácil cae ligero” (That which is easy falls lightly): That which is easy falls lightly That which is hard weighs heavy Time goes by flying Since it can It has to fly Each in his own place Everything is very clear 7.

“Usa tus ojos / no juegues sucio / ve despacio / no te metas si no te toca / usa la cabeza / antes que la boca / […] / haz todo lo que puedas / todo a su tiempo / algunas cosas no se olvidan / las palabras se las lleva el viento / tienes que estar tranquilo / disfruta tu momento / juega tu partida / vigila, todo gira / todo vuelve / todo es mentira / hay perros que ladran y muerden / hay días de suerte / hay días que no terminan.”

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528 Your background marks you You choose the puddle Where you want to paddle.8

Other lyrics from the album show a clear desire to transcend the aesthetics of realism, by means of an imaginary that contrasts with the prosaic character of much of hip-hop’s lyrics: “The dice are in the air / it is night and so hot / that the wounds bleed / that the muses dance / that eyes speak / that demons sing”9 (“En la hoguera” [In the bonfire]). The imprint of flamenco negro (black flamenco), as it has come to be called, is also quite evident in the Barcelonan group, Ojos de brujo (Sorcerer eyes), led by María la Canillas. In the album Barí (2003), a word of caló origin, the flamenco palos sound alongside scratch and beatboxing: “aquí un poquillo de jiphop flamenquillo / pa toas las quillas, pa tós los quillos” (A little bit of hip-hop flamenco / for all the girls, for all the boys) can be heard in the chorus of “Tiempo de Soleá,” the album’s opening piece and a denunciation of the situation of illegal immigrants in Spain: surrounded by so many people and I feel so alone my heart is like a delicate timebomb on the verge of exploding foreign and with expired papers there is no Son nor Guanguanco to console me time is a Soleá and hurts I walk down the street listening to whines in every corner the future hangs by a string.10

The mixed-race Cuban singer, Ela, from Madrid, sketches the multiethnic map of her neighborhood in “Lavapiés,” from the album Ábreme la puerta (Open the door, 2004): the churros are mixed with azafrán an Indian who yells and a Chinese who goes by the world of cheap merchandise Lavapiés resembles an atlas nuts from Pekón a Sesame-seasoned Pakistani what I don’t find is Bangladesh don’t confuse this with Marrakesh11

The singer offsets the social content of lyrics such as “In the bar,” a story of love forged in spite of the fact that “en el paro nunca se es un buen partido” (on employment benefit one is never a 8.

“Lo fácil cae ligero / lo duro pesa mucho / el tiempo va volando / ya que puede / tiene que volar / cada uno en su lugar / todo está muy claro / tu origen te marca / tú eliges la charca / donde quieres remar”.

9.

“Los dados están en el aire / es de noche y arde / que las heridas sangren / que las musas bailen / que los ojos hablen / que demonios canten.”

10. “rodeá de tanta gente y yo me siento tan sola / mi corazón es como una bomba / de relojería fina a punto de estallar / extranjera y con papela caducá // no hay son ni guaguancó que me consuele / el tiempo es de soleá y a mí me duele / voy por la calle escuchando los quejíos / el futuro en cada esquina pende de un hilo.” 11.

“los churros se mezclan con azafrán / un indio que grita y un chino que va / el mundo de la mercancía barata / Lavapiés parece un atlas / frutos secos del Pekín / un Pakistán de ajonjolí / lo que no encuentro es Bangladesh / no confundir con Marraquesh.”

Immigration, gender, and resistance in hip-hop music529 good match) with the apparently celebratory character of the effects of migratory movements throughout Madrid — here converted into a shelter for multiple cultural referents (“Lavapiés, mi madre de adopción” [Lavapiés, my adoptive mother]). This piece reflects the preference, shared by many contemporary Peninsular authors, for a narrative understanding of song writing, as if everyday life stories aspired to make the “great stories of modernity” tangible. However, as compared with other attempts to move beyond emancipatory meta-narratives, hip-hop does not deny the value of the truth. In fact, axiology might be better used in order to comprehend the social use of this music, which functions in many ways like a belief system (it is enough to consider the names of groups such as Los Verdaderos Kreyentes de la Religión del Hip-Hop [The true believers of the Hip-Hop religion] or Dios Ke te Krew). Thus, truth becomes a measure of the value of existence and the lyrics of hip-hop remit as much to the life-world of the subject who speaks them as to the moment of their enunciation. In reference to the development of hip-hop on the East Coast of the US, Brian Cross (1993, 3) alludes to this alliance between personal history and the present: If the phenomenon of hiphop tells us anything, it is that people have stories. These stories are specific and relate to the social geography that produces them. They exist in the real […] The form of these stories — the relation between their content and how they are told — is significant. Mainstream culture of late seems to be caught between retroism and parody. While both retrochic and parody can tell us something about the present, they are underpinned by a profound disdain for it. Many of us don’t have a past we can truly celebrate and unfortunately we can’t exactly rely on the future; so the present is all we have. Hiphop is the music of the present tense.

D. Chuck (Chuck & Yusah 1998), the frontman for Public Enemy, once claimed that “rap is CNN for black people,” at a time when the politically conscious hip-hop groups aspired to become channels for counter-information. In the lyrics of Dnoe (En qué piensan las mujeres [What women think about], 2001), La Mala Rodríguez, and Arianna Puello (Así lo siento [This is how I feel it], 2003), the truth now is not counter-information, but rather experience. María Rodríquez sums it up in a pair of verses from Alevosía: “tú lo has leído / yo lo he vivido” (you’ve read it / I’ve lived it). The Dominican rapper Arianna Puello speaks in the first person about the phenomena of immigration in her piece “Pensando en un futuro” (Thinking about a future) — the chorus of which reads “Buscaré futuro en el cielo que me cubra hoy” (I will seek future in the sky that covers me today) — as well as in “Tierra prometida” (Promised land): I still recall that day as if it were yesterday of all that I lived, of all I went through the strange one arrived, the foreigner arrived, not from another galaxy, though just as if this were the case all the looks focus on me another daughter of the wind’s rose, yes, other papers, other documents, in the promised land I try my luck.12

12.

“Aún recuerdo aquel día como si fuese ayer, / de tó lo que viví, de tó lo que pasé / llegó la rara, llegó la forastera, / no de otra galaxia pero como si lo fuera / todas las miradas se dirigen hacia mí / otra hija de la rosa de los vientos, sí, / otros papeles, otros documentos, / en la tierra prometida mi suerte tiento.”

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Gender consciousness allies itself with the expression of cultural and geographic distance in hiphop of non-Spanish expression as well. The group “As Garotas” (The girls), two Galician women based in Barcelona, stress their connection with the working class in their lyrics. As in the cases alluded to above, the use of the first person is not an indication of being wrapped up in oneself, but rather it is a password to the genealogy of a feminine community, which contains much of the song of origin’s Paradise Lost: I am from a land of women who are burdened like beasts and seed cockles along the shore and potatoes in the field in their eyes they carry a sun that doesn’t burn and in their mouth a ripe lemon.13

If it is true that where there is complexity there is richness, hip-hop cultures of the Iberian Peninsula constitute a privileged object when it comes to reflecting on the reach of contemporary pop music. The attention to certain variables (gender and migratory movements) contained in this lyrical mode — not only urban — can aid in the reconfiguration of the maps of identity, redefining certain preconceived notions of the relations between language, nation, and territory. To describe it once again with words borrowed from María Rodríguez (“En la hoguera” [In the bonfire], Alevosía, 2003) “Es curioso, la luz cambia las cosas de sitio” (It’s strange, light changes the placement of things).

13.

“Eu son / dunha terra de mulleres / que cargan coas bestas / e sementan / berberechos na ribeira / e patacas na leira / levan nos ollos / un sol que non queima / e na boca / un limón maduro.”

Notes on the cinematographic canon and its relation to the theory of genres in a Spanish and Portuguese context José Antonio Pérez Bowie and Fernando González García In an article entitled “¿Un arte sin clásicos?” (An art without classics?), published in the Madrilenean journal Films Selectos in 1932, Lorenzo Conde (1996), a regular contributor to the magazine, considered the fact that rapid technological advances meant that films which on their release were considered the height of sophistication could be outmoded within a few years. Conde deduced from this that cinema was a form without classics, and therefore could not be considered authentic art. This could only be achieved through a technical perfection that would “allow us to view old films as definitive products, with the same timelessness as the great artistic productions.” It is beyond doubt that the technical perfection that Conde desired would arrive in the years following his article, but at the same time, like every new art form, cinema has evolved continuously since that time. In this regard, the article published by another prestigious Spanish critic, Jose Palau, twenty-five years later in the magazine Otro cine (Another cinema), in which he reflects on the dynamism of the seventh art and the difficulties that the consequent lack of absolute master pieces cause for the critic. He concludes that the cinema critic should resist any tendency towards normalization: We have said that the film-critic should be a guide, and for the spectator, not for the artist. He should follow the artist like a shadow, but not presume to be the torch that lights his way. In other words, the critic should be careful not to be a priori. The creators were first and later the critics. Each time that these, trusting in their experience, have wanted to declare that which has to be done and that which has to be avoided, they have fallen in the error in trying to secure an unknowable future on the back of a past that has been definitively erased. (Otro cine 37, July–August 1959)

In any case, it is important to recognize that the expression “classic cinematography” has become part of the vocabulary among both students and lovers of cinema. But despite the notorious ease with which the phrase is used, a consensus as to its meaning is far from universal. It is enough to compare the various lists of “best ever films” to see the wide variation of films proposed, a variation that increases in accordance with the length of the list. Subjective tastes seem to be the only criteria that govern these compilations. The only consensus with regard to the use of the term “classic” is when it designates Hollywood films of the years between 1935–50. The term is more descriptive than evaluative, as it is often used in opposition to “modern film” and refers to certain characteristics of the film production of the earlier period, especially those that derive from an enunciative invisibility that is the mark of the cinema of that time. This lack of consensus has to do with the gap in cinematography between artistic theory and practice. In this it is very different to the other secular arts, in which there has always been a close link between theorists and artists. Despite the decay of a normative poetics in the last two hundred years, the academy still plays an important role in the arts, especially when it comes to the inclusion or exclusion of given works from the educational curriculum. Cinema’s link to doi 10.1075/chlel.29.43per © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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artistic products aimed at the mass market, with their many shared characteristics (ephemerality, short lifespan, a lack of artistic design, subjection to economic criteria, etc.), has been without doubt the principal cause of its underappreciation with regard to the other arts, and also of the delay in its acceptance within the academic tradition and among intellectual elites, and for the formation of a canon of cinematic works. We come here to an especially difficult topic, as the concept of canon, whether literary or otherwise, is fundamentally problematic. Questions as to who institutes a canon, to what degree a canon is determined by ideological factors, the level and duration of its efficacy, etc., are infinitely debateable. The cinematographic canon (or better, the attempts to construct it) has formed outside the institutions (“schools” or academies) that have played major roles in the formation and, above all, the reproduction and establishment of value criteria, of other artistic canons. In this regard, John Guillory speaks of the dependence of value criteria with respect to the different social groups that define value in terms of their needs and expectations. According to this perspective “aesthetic judgement” would be replaced by “institutional principles,” and the question as to “what is read” would be replaced by that of “who reads and how do they do it” (Guillory 1990, 239). Itamar Even-Zohar also rejects the attempts of authors such as Harold Bloom to define the canon in purely literary terms, and claims that all the laws that are applied to literature are not exclusive to it: literature is an institution and behaves in the same way as any other socially established institution (Even-Zohar 1985, 264). For Even-Zohar, then, canonicity is most visibly articulated on the level of repertoire, conceived as the aggregate of norms and elements that govern the production of texts and their uses, affecting both production and consumption. The notion of repertoire exceeds that of code as it is the aggregate of materials that can be used for certain types of discourse: individual elements, syntagms, and models (these last suppose expert knowledge in order that the text may be decoded). Even-Zohar argues that the context necessary for a repertoire is the institution, by which he means the totality of elements involved in the maintenance of literature as a socio-cultural activity, and which includes the circuit of producers, critics, publishing houses, educational institutions, mass media, etc. (Even-Zohar 1990, 39–40; Pozuelo & Aradra Sánchez 2000). The distinction that Even-Zohar makes between static canonicity, which operates on the level of texts, and dynamic canonicity, which works at the level of repertoire, is enormously effective in terms of establishing the relevance of a canon, allowing us to differentiate between “revered” but non-relevant models, and those that are constantly revisited and continue to be referents for new creative processes. In this regard it is useful to recall the words that Frank Kermode uses to refer to a “classic” text, which he defines as an inexhaustible work, opposing with its energeia the tendency to be reduced to canonic ergon. A classic, then, would be a text that is never a closed event, but a work that provokes different and even contradictory readings over time (Kermode 1988). Limiting ourselves to the problem of the cinematographic canon, it is necessary that we realize that there is no “academic” formulation that coincides with this canon and that, although the “institution” is more and more important (the prestige of certain magazines or cultural programs do “consecrate” given films), ultimately what predominates are personal canons (Harris 1991) that are without normative validity or much effect on reception, but are merely the expression of personal taste or the justification of a specific work or ideology. With regards to the existence of “cinema classics,” we should note that though “classic” is a term that is often used, it is important to qualify it from a theoretical perspective. Useful here

Notes on the cinematographic canon533 is the opposition between operative and non-operative models identified by Even-Zohar (dynamic as opposed to static canonicity), which can be used to distinguish between classic films that are universally recognized and the objects of veneration, if without the capacity to mold the creativity of contemporary film-makers (in Kermode’s terms their energeia has become ergon), and those films that remain active models, and whose energeia remains available to present-day creators. As happens in the literary world, the revisitation of texts allows for a wide variety of options: from the purely repetitive re-make to their use as a starting-point for a completely original work, as well as practices such as the homage, citation, parody, critical re-reading, self-conscious plagiary, and all the operations that might come under the category of “intertextuality” (Stam & Fitterman-Lewis 1999, 235–40). This allows us to consider a wide range of films whose recurrent use by later directors marks their status as “classics.” It is possible, then, to affirm that the reappropriation of one author by another is a “sign of their untranslatabilty, of their irreducible classicism” (Balló & Pérez 2005, 245). Jordi Balló and Xavier Perez pay special attention to Alfred Hitckcock in this regard, and mention, for example, the sequences of Brian de Palma’s Fascination (1976) and Dressed to kill (1980), which are citations of the dream-like atmosphere of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Also of interest here is their commentary on the “appropriations” of Hitchcock’s films, such as 24 hours psycho by the artist Douglas Gordon, in which the film is shown in slow motion in an exercise that reveals the film as opaque texture. Gordon claims that his work aims not to simply “appropriate” the original, but to show its quality as a cinematic masterpiece, and also to emphasize his own artistic preoccupations, such as recognition and repetition, the creation of complicity with the spectator through the phenomenon of duplication, which are recurring themes in his work. Pierre Huyghe’s Remake (1995), a minute by minute reconstruction of Rear window (1954), wth the double aim of paying homage to the original film, while also showing its temporal fissures, is a more critical and distanced appropriation of Hitchcock’s work. Perhaps the most extreme example of this tendency is Gus Van Sant’s shot by shot remake of Psycho (1998). For Balló and Pérez, this literal remake can be understood in terms of Van Sant’s reverence for the original, which “could only be defined by its attention to detail: considering Psycho as an inviolable text whose revisitation could only be achieved in the same way as Menard approaches the Quixote, showing it all over again, shot by shot, word for word, with only accessorial elements (the colors, the actors…) changing, these last marking the passing of time and history” (Balló & Pérez 2005, 245–46). It would not be difficult to show many other examples of these cinematographic practices that certify the classic status of a work that inspires continuous “revisitations” by later filmmakers, if by revisitation we refer to a range of heterogeneous strategies, most of which could be filed under the Genettian category of hypertextuality (a relation of one text to another in which the posterior modifies the anterior) and which are exemplified in parodies, pastiche, re-­ elaborations, sequels, etc. We can see the various strategies at play in the following examples: Herbert Ross’s Play it again, Sam (1972), which derives from Michel Curtiz’s Casablanca (1942); Morrisey and Warhol’s Heat (1972), which takes on Billy Wilder’s Sunset boulevard (1950); Woody Allen’s Deconstructing Harry (1997), a take on Bergman’s Wild strawberrys (1957); and Danny de Vito’s Throw Mama from the train (1987), which playfully references Hitchcock’s Strangers on a train (1951). From the heterogeneity of the various “revisitation” practices that these films employ, it is clear that they are not necessarily sombre homages to an original perceived as “classic.” They often, in fact, partake of postmodern cultural strategies in which irony plays a major role. As

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Umberto Eco (1984, 74) argues, the postmodern artist, as opposed to his modernist forebears, does not try to destroy the past, as he recognizes that to do so would be to condemn the artist to silence, and chooses instead to revisit the past with an attitude of subversive irony. The question that remains to be resolved here is the relevance of the cinematographic “classic.” The short history of the seventh art in comparison with the traditional arts, and the rapidity with which new aesthetic styles succeed each other in cinema, does not allow for a stable judgement as to the operativity of these universally recognized works, especially given that in cinema there is no official canon guaranteed by the academy or by prestigious cultural institutions. We do not possess, then, a sufficient temporal perspective so as to venture claims as to the relevance of these cinematographic models, nor to speculate on the possibility that they might be revitalized in other times and spaces that might constitute similar conditions to their original creation. We would like to concentrate here on another category, closely linked to the canon, and, similarly, an object of debate within literary theory: the category of genre. The most recent approaches to this question are far from antiquated normative pretensions, but also from formalist description, and consider more the mutability and relativism of forms, rejecting closed and hierarchical systems in favor of hybridity and the convergences that allow for genre to articulate the relations between a given work and the tradition from which it emerges. For Jean-Marie Schaeffer (1989, 159–65), if the literary work is a pluridimensional and complex semiotic reality, genre is then more “modifier” than “model.” If we consider genre as a field of modification, it is important to emphasize its transformative capacity, in which what matters is its instability, its capacity as dialectical mediation between conservation and innovation. Schaeffer identifies here a basic category, that of “hypertextual genericity” which allows him to imagine every text as a hypertext that derives from previous hypotexts through operations of transformation and imitation. Theoretical approaches to cinematographic genre can lack the rigor and profundity of those of literature, which can draw on centuries of tradition. Approaches to cinema are confronted with the same problems as literature, among those that of genre, with regard to which there are no clear guidelines, leading to a terminological confusion in which formal, production, and reception criteria are conflated. All the generic classifications are then debatable, and only those that overcome a restrictive exclusivity without becoming simple lists derived from obvious classificatory labels achieve a certain coherence. Rick Altman has gone furthest in formulating a more rigorous approach to the question of genre in cinema, showing the necessity of renouncing essentialist criteria and linking the notion of genre to specific conditions of production and reception. Altman argues that the majority of films associated with a given genre were in fact produced before the establishment of genre norms, or against the norms of an existing genre. He calls attention to the fact that in the realm of production specific genre classifications are avoided, as studios implicitly tend to multiply the number of genres with which a film can be identified. On the other hand, although audiences frequently choose a film based on its genre, the process is more complex than is normally described: the genre criteria with which the spectator operates do not strictly coincide with those of the producer, but proceed from various, and sometimes contradictory, sources. In this regard, to the discourse of the studio (aimed at attracting various types of audience), should be added the statements of the critics and what Altman describes as various networks of genre viewers. There is no guarantee of agreement between the opinions emitted in different areas. The principal error of the theorists is, for Altman, that they base their theories on a small number of typical genres

Notes on the cinematographic canon535 such as the musical, the western, or slapstick comedy, falling prey to a reductionism that does not take into account the fact that these genres are extreme cases upon which a general theory cannot be founded (Altman 2000, 198). Altman’s alternative is a discription of genre that would combine semantic and syntactic criteria (significant elements that are superficial and perfectly visible and formal elements that correspond to a deep structure), about which I will not go into detail; the most important point is that not all generic cinematic works relate to their genre in the same way. The dual approach that Altman suggests allows for an understanding of different levels of “genericity” and also describes inter-generic connections with greater precision. In this way, he claims to find a way to surpass the traditional objective of genre theory, which is limited, generally, to the elaboration of a synchronic model that is close to the syntactic functioning of a specific genre (Altman 2000, 291–304). Leutrat (1995), on the other hand, insists on the necessity of adopting a pragmatic perspective in the analysis of cinematographic genres, and he claims that genre distinctions depend on their collective creation and acceptance at a given moment. Thus he sees the necessity of supplementing the history of the genre as a “natural object” (the western, the musical, etc.) with a history of the linguistic determination of a given generic category. The history of genres would consist, from this perspective, in the identification and exploration of the problems related with two basic moments: the birth of generic types and the circumstances of their posterior development, and above all the alliances and power relations that are established between them. The notion of genre is, therefore, related to the existence of conventions that have been accepted by the spectator and which govern their horizons of expectation. The spectator participates, then, in the production of genre in the same way that genre configures its audience and governs their expectations, with these attitudes controlling the understanding of difference and repetition. Genres, therefore, have to be recognizable, and the spectator will always both desire the fulfilment of his/her expectations in the repetition of the clichés and stereotypes of a given genre, but will also expect innovation and variation. Generic repetition is subject to minor deviations that the spectator recognizes and enjoys (see Balló & Pérez 2005, 9). To conclude this long synthesis of the question of cinematographic as opposed to literary genres, we can point to some defining traits of film genre: – – –

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They are “extra-academic”; born from a conjunction of industry interests and audience expectation. This also implies the weakness of any normative pretension: the theoretical reflection with regard to film genre is usually a posteriori, and the very complexity of film tends to defy any classificatory ambition. Film genre is more often applied to purely commercial films than to auteur cinema. Generic films are considered more of a repetitive, mass-produced object than art-house films, which are seen as the expression of an author. It is not rare, however, to observe a dialectical relation between the vanguard and popular art (a phenomenon defined by cultural theorists). Here we could point to the art-house directors who take on a given genre and give it their own twist, and, inversely, the assimilation of genre film of certain stylistic traits of art-house film. They are constructed in relation to a few characteristic elements that spectators can easily identify.

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José Antonio Pérez Bowie and Fernando González García They are open to all sorts of inter-combinations, a trait that facilitates hybridism. This hybridism, as Altman shows, is fomented by the film industry with the objective of diversifying the audience. As opposed to literary genre, there seems to be a disconnection between genres and canon. The existence of a cinematographic canon (from which the status of “classic” would be derived), if there is such a thing, would be more linked to art-house cinema (a product that is related to the notion of authorial intent) than to commercial cinema, based on the reiteration of serial schemes, which is where the category of genre would be more profitable. Although, despite this, it is not rare to come across the use of statements such as “a classic of film noir,” “a classic western,” or “a classic musical” to designate a given film as the most achieved realization of a generic paradigm.

After this extensive theoretic excursion we would like to concentrate on two case studies of the link between film and dictatorial regimes whose censorship policies are similar (though they are dissimilar in their respective promotion of their national film industry), in order to investigate the functioning of different genres in a determined moment in the history of film. In the case of Spanish cinema, characterized by the use of film as ideological propaganda (with a concomitant dependence on censorship) and the imbrication of the state with the film industry, we are confronted with a hypothesis that would negate some of our previous observations: the link between genre and a power (whether political, religious, cultural, or of any other type) that would determine a specific cinematographic model. This would be a model in which the intervention of these power structures, not only in the process of production but also in the processes of reception, would grant the status of canonical. We will choose for analysis three concrete and very diverse cases: the promotion of historical and heroizing films of nationalistic tone typical of the Franco regime in the 1940s and 1950s; the Catholic Church’s promotion of a religious and humanistic cinema in the 1950s and 1960s; and the cinema derived from literary sources under the first socialist governments. The Portuguese case is very different. The state’s only attempt to establish a canon, linked to the possibility of receiving funds from the Fondo Cinematográfico Nacional (National Cinematographic Fund), was proposed in 1948 by Antonio Ferro, who was in charge of Salazar’s propaganda machine. For Ferro, “historical” films were the most reliable and safe options for Portuguese cinema. On the other hand, “comic” films would be the most dangerous cultural products, with their tendency for grossness and vulgarity, although comedy could broaden horizons. On the other hand, films that would showcase regional and folk culture without descending into rude cliché could also receive funding, as well as cleverly plotted detective movies. Ferro also spoke about documentary and educational films, and it is worth remembering here, with respect to the short documentary film, very much linked to propaganda, the only protectionist measure prior to 1949, the so-called “law of one hundred meters.” This law, promulgated in 1927, obliged cinema theatre owners to project at least one Portuguese film, of at least one hundred meters in length, which would be changed each week. Another genre that Ferro considered important was that of films adapted from novels or theatrical works, and also films of a “poetical nature,” the only example of which in Portugal was Manoel de Oliveira’s Anikí Bobo. Until 1948 the Portuguese state had dedicated itself to the ideological control of cinema through censorship and the production of a few films that could serve as propaganda models, but it had not created protectionist measures that would favor industrial expansion. When the

Notes on the cinematographic canon537 creation of a system of measures through the aforementioned fund was proposed the situation was already serious: the industry was very weak and the public had begun to abandon national cinema, so that Ferro’s idea of a national canon had very little possibility of becoming a reality. Opposed to this canon was the alternative of the intellectual and political opposition to the regime, which followed the tenets of Neorealism, and whose expression was systematically limited by censorship. Later, in the 1960s, we can see the adaptation of works by neorealist authors, but now in the climate of the New Cinema. Finally, from the start of the 1970s, the situation is completely anomalous with respect to the international panorama: the Gulbenkian Foundation becomes the motor of an anti-canonical, provocative, and authorial cinematography. In contrast to the literary adaptations that characterize film under the first socialist governments in Spain, which generated a relatively tame style that aimed for commercial success, Portuguese cinema in the 1970s and 1980s was radical and innovative in its relation to literature, a tendency that was to grant it prestige in international film festivals and make it a cultural ambassador and bastion of cinematographic modernity in Europe (Strauss 2006). The comparison between the Spanish and the Portuguese examples illustrates the fact that the attempts to formulate a cinematic canon cannot be removed from industry and markets. In Spain, these attempts, in different political circumstances, start from the presupposition that film is and should be an industry. In Portugal, the late creation — in comparison with Spain — of a protectionist fund was accompanied by the state’s promotion of a canon, but the circumstances — a crisis in the national sector in a context of global cultural transformation — meant that this attempt was a failure.

The case of Spain heroic-historical film and the nineteenth century melodrama of the 1940s and 1950s The period that moves from the end of the Civil War until the first half of the 1950s is, without doubt, characterized by the state’s decisive intervention in the production of cinema, which in effect meant the imposition of certain models that film producers were obliged to follow if they wanted their films to be shown in commercial theatres. This situation (which was repeated in other countries with similar regimes) requires us to qualify the general affirmation which we formulated with regard to the separation of the cinematographic canon from normative interventions. It is true that during the Franco regime there was no coherent or rigorously designed state program of ideological control of film production, due, among other reasons, to the complex system of control, often directed by actors with quite diverse motives (Company 1996; Pérez Bowie 2004). But for all that it is possible to describe the imposition of a uniform mode of thought to which, with a few exceptions, the molders of the theoretical and critical discourse on cinema subscribed. One of the constants of this discourse is the promotion of a “genuinely Spanish” cinema, which would avoid the servile imitation of foreign models, as well as the exaltation of a degrading españolismo based on the stereotypes of peasant culture. This search for the “genuinely Spanish” is linked to certain genres that were supposedly representative of the “essence” of Spain. A good example here is the following piece, taken from an article published in 1954 in the journal Espectáculo (Spectacle):

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José Antonio Pérez Bowie and Fernando González García Has Spanish cinema, our cinema, defined its genres…? The response is negative, and it is precisely in our not having done so, in our humble opinion, one of the main reasons for its indisputable immaturity. This lack can be traced to the most important and decisive point: there is no definite, continuous, and identifiable genre of national cinema, a genre that would allow us to identify, without titles and without prior knowledge of the actors, a Spanish film. (Barreira, “El supergénero y los géneros en el cine español,” Espectáculo, July 1954)

Barreira continues by referring to the fact that Spanish cinema had taken on almost all the genres in the world, but that it had done so in a derivative and opportunistic manner, and without being able to “henchir, llenar de sustancia española los moldes foráneos” (fill the foreign molds with Spanish substance). Spanish film is, for Barreira, exceptional, in that it has not followed a general tendency in Spanish art to “asimilar lo extraño y darle troquel propio” (assimilate the foreign and give it a Spanish stamp). Behind these opinions there is a rule-giving tendency common to the majority of writers on cinema in these years that, in a more or less conscious manner, follows the interventionist tendencies of the regime. It is significant that Barreira begins his article with the claim that “the manual for cinema has still not been written,” and continues “despite not being written, there are already certain normative laws of cinema, tacitly accepted, and, among these, those which make reference to well defined genres of the seventh art.” These laws he attributes to cinema’s inheritance from literary norms. The lack of rigor, however, of literary approaches to genre in cinema is evident in the attempt to place film at the service of the dominant ideology. It is in this sense that we can speak of the attempt to establish, in accordance with the necessities of political power, a cinematographic canon that would propose as a paradigm of españolidad a genre such as historical and hagiographical cinema. This genre would include those films that modify literary texts in order to offer an idealized version of the past (Antonio Román’s Fuenteovejuna, 1947; Rafael Gil’s Don Quijote de la Mancha, 1948; Juan de Orduña’s Locura de amor [Madness of love], 1948; José Luis Sáenz de Heredia’s Don Juan, 1950; Gutiérrez Maeso’s El alcalde de Zalamea [The mayor of Zalamea], 1953; Luis Lucia’s Jeromín, 1953), and also films based on original scripts that recreate historic episodes of Spanish history (Leitão de Barros and García Viñolas’s Inés de Castro, 1944; Antonio Román’s Los últimos de Filipinas [The last in the Philippines], 1945; Ignacio F. Iquino’s El tambor del Bruch [Bruch’s drum], 1948; and Juan de Orduña’s Agustina de Aragón, 1950, and Alba de América [Dawn of America], 1951). With or without specific norms, this ideology was imposed on film production through diverse means, whether through censorship, the promotion of the adaptation of texts that coincided with the dominant ideology, or politically motivated subventions. Another genre that was equally favored by the authorities was melodrama set in the nineteenth century. Based on novels of the period written from a markedly conservative perspective, these were part of the Catholic Church’s counter-attack against the advances of liberalism. The Catholicism of these texts was transferred to the films in the context of Francoist propaganda that characterized the Civil War as a crusade against atheism. Examples of this type might be José Luis Sáenz de Heredia’s El escándalo (The scandal); Rafael Gil’s La pródiga (The prodigal woman, 1946) and La fe (Faith, 1947) (all of these are adaptations of the work of Pedro Antonio de Alarcón); and Juan de Orduña’s Pequeñeces (Trifles, 1950) — based on the novel by Luis Coloma. The predilection for the nineteenth century leads to the production of other films that are not so ideologically determined but which share the characteristics (melodrama, conservatism, idealization of the past) inherent to the genre (Rafael

Notes on the cinematographic canon539 Gil’s El gran galeoto [The great Galeoto, 1950], based on the drama of Echegaray, and Antonio Román’s Lola Montes, 1944 are of this type, as are biographic films such as José López Rubio’s Eugenia de Montijo, 1944; Domingo Viladomat’s Gayarre, 1958; or El huésped de las tinieblas [Guest of darkness, 1948], a novelistic biography of Bécquer directed by Antonio del Amo). Even texts that were completely removed from the ideological designs of the regime were manipulated so as to conform with them. A good example is Antonio and Manuel Machado’s La Lola se va a los puertos (Lola leaves for the ports, 1947), the story of which, in addition to its setting being moved to the romantic era, is subject to an ideological perversion through which the film is given melodramatic elements that are completely absent from the original. Both cases, the historical drama of nationalist glorification and the nineteenth century melodrama, are eloquent examples of the attempt by political powers to create specific generic paradigms. The period in which these genres were dominant extends for more or less a decade, from the middle of the 1940s, in which the victory of the allies in World War II led to a search for an identity for Spanish cinema with the view to making a space for it in foreign markets, until the middle of the 1950s, by which time the political authorities seem to lose interest in controlling the film industry. It is not necessary to go into detail of the similar, if more systematic, approaches to the film industry of the Nazi and Italian fascist regimes, which also promoted historical and heroic film genres. Here we could recall German films such as Ucicky’s Red dawn, Trenker’s For liberty, Meyer’s Frederick the Great, or Steinhoff ’s Hitlerjunge Quex. In Italy examples include Corrado D’Errico’s Il camino degli eroi (The path of the heroes, 1936), Allessandrini’s Luciano Serra, pilot (1938), Forzano’s Black shirt (1933), or Blasseti’s Old guard (1934). We should not omit here the Soviet film industry and its role as revolutionary propaganda, which is, historically, the first example of film’s subservience to the interests of political power, beginning as it does in the silent era. In the 1930s, films such as Dovjanko’s Ivan, Dziga-Vertov’s Enthusiasm (1931), Nicolai Ekk’s Road to life (1931), or Pudovkin’s Deserter (1933) are prime examples. On a completely different front, although we could still speak here of imposition, or at least suggestion of a determined genre, are the North American social films, which served as a real vehicle of propaganda for Roosevelt’s New Deal. Films such as Curtiz’s The cabin in the cotton, Mervin Le Roy’s I am a fugitive from a chain gang, Fritz Lang’s Fury, Archie Mayo’s Black legion could serve, among many others, as good examples of this tendency. religious film of the 1950s and 1960s From the start of the decade of the 1950s it is possible to speak of another, similar, attempt to impose a determined cinematographic canon, although this time not just limited to Spain and linked more to religious than to political circumstances. We refer here to the Vatican’s plan to use cinema as a tool in the fight against the wave of laicism and moral flexibility which film had helped bring about. Pope Pius XII was himself the force behind this plan, writing various doctrinal texts in which he argued for the necessity of achieving a cinema “aimed at the perfecting of man and the glory of God” (the phrase is taken from one of the most important texts that the Pope dedicated to this question: the discourse pronounced during the audience which he gave to the representatives of the world film industry at the Italian “Titanus” congress, celebrated on 21 June 1955; reproduced in its entirety in the Revista Internacional de Cine 17–18, July–August 1955). The development of this policy led to the creation of cinema clubs related to parishes and religious centers, the foundation of distribution companies charged with providing material to these centers (in 16mm format), the promotion of collections of books and magazines (Film

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Ideal, Revista Internacional del Cine, for example) of film theory destined for the education of the spectator and the cultivation of a Catholic approach to cinema. Most important was the creation of film companies with Catholic directors which were dedicated to the creation of films with religious content. This intervention of the Catholic Church was not limited to Spain and was also important in other Catholic countries, such as France and Italy. In the Spanish case, Catholic cinema functioned as a third way between commercial film and the innovative cinema of left-wing film-makers. A sterile classicism and an insistence on “quality” were the principal weapons of this approach in its attempt to gain acceptance. The principal force behind the scenes was Vicente Escrivá, whose production company, Aspa Films (founded in collaboration with Rafael Gil, José Antonio Elola, and Miguel de Echarri), was to make a series of films whose conservative messages marked them off from the renovation of Spanish film that had begun towards the middle of the 1950s at the hand of film-makers and intellectuals opposed to the regime. In opposition to this tendency, Aspa opted for culturally ambitious films, carefully made and derived from the rich Spanish literary tradition. A representative example of this sterile aestheticism is César Fernández Ardavín’s El Lazarillo de Tormes (1959), in which all the critical edge and pessimism of the original is removed. The international recognition that this film received, winning the Golden Bear at the Berlin Festival, was, without doubt, an important incentive for Escrivá and the defenders of this “third way.” The films produced by Escrivá concentrate on religious themes, as can be seen in the titles of his films: Balarrasa (José A. Nieves Conde, 1950), La Señora de Fátima (Our lady of Fatima, Rafael Gil, 1951), La guerra de Dios (God’s war, Rafael Gil, 1953), El beso de Judas (Judas’s kiss, Rafael Gil, 1954), all of which were scripted by Escrivá himself. In those films based on literary texts, the adaptation tends to manipulate the themes of the original so as to incorporate religious transcendentalism, as in the case of Dulcinea (Vicente Escrivá, 1962), in which the aims of the main character are given a Christian dimension (parallels between Dulcinea and Christ are constantly suggested), an aspect which is entirely absent from Gaston Baty’s theatrical work, in which the main character’s mission is solely humanitarian. The aims of Arpa films would diversify, however, by the mid 1950s, when they began to focus more on commercial success, notwithstanding the fact that Escrivá and his colleagues were to receive the apostolic blessing of Pope Pius XII (Heredero 1993, 54–55). The importance and intensity of this “third way” was minor if compared to the previous tendencies, but it is also true that this was a similar type of ideological determination of cinematic production (providing a similar generic model and constructing the theoretical bases for the canonization of its films) on the part of powerful interests, in this case religious. But, as opposed to the other tendencies mentioned, the Catholic-inspired policies were not limited to Spain, but, as already mentioned, prevalent in other countries in which the Catholic church had a strong presence, such as Italy and France. “culturalist” cinema of literary derivation from the period of the first psoe governments The third example we would like to refer to is closer to the present: this is the project of a “culturalist” cinema of the first PSOE governments (although already in the last years of the UCD there had been steps in this direction) during the 1980s. Legislation in this regard, known commonly as the “Ley Miró” (Miró’s Law) and published in December of 1982, is an example of this cultural planning, although in a sense that is the inverse of the previous cases, in that it had the aim of dignifying Spanish cinema and bringing it to the level of that produced in other countries. The

Notes on the cinematographic canon541 search for this “dignity” led to a recurrence to prestigious literary texts from which were derived a series of films of considerable homogeneity, given that the adaptations are characterized by an extreme fidelity to the source material and direction which is more workmanlike than authorial. These common traits — literary source material, formal correctness, lack of stylistic extravagance — allows us to define a genre that is more or less directly the result of a government policy that had as its aim the elevation of a very poor level of film production and the “culturalization” of spectators. Both these objectives were secondary with regard to a third aim, which was to increase the competitiveness of Spanish cinema in international markets. Carlos Losilla, who has lucidly analyzed the presence of literature in the cinema of this period, refers to the way in which this protectionist decree amounted to a purification of writing, producing a standard linguistic model that left no place for dissent, being only concerned with correctness of style. Referring to directors of the time, such as Chavarri, who had had a distinct style, Losilla (2002, 124) notes how, from 1982, they set themselves on a path in search of a style of literary inspiration, as refined as it was neutral, as apparently elegant as it was obliquely perceptive, in which historical perspective, the generic tradition, and the poverty of language together inspire a pair of films [referring here to Bearn and Las bicicletas son para el verano] at the same time dissimilar and identical, which offer the perfect example of the destiny of old artists in the new panorama of Spanish cinema, namely, to perpetuate their prestige through a connection with literature.

Literary incursions had not been infrequent since the final years of Francoism, but now they saw a notable increase, with a special concentration on contemporary but already canonical authors (the majority of which were included in secondary school curricula): Bearn o La sala de las muñecas (Bearn or The dolls’ room, Jaime Chávarri 1983) and Las bicicletas son para el verano (Bycicles are for the summer, Jaime Chávarri, 1984), based on the novel of Llorenç Villalonga and the drama by Fernando Fernán-Gómez respectively; Últimas tardes con Teresa (Last afternoons with Teresa, Gonzalo Herralde, 1984), based on the novel of Juan Marsé; Los santos inocentes (The holy innocents, Mario Camus, 1984), El disputado voto del señor Cayo (The disputed vote of Mr. Cayo, Giménez-Rico, 1986), and La sombra del ciprés es alargada (The shadow of the cypress is long, Luis Alcoriza, 1990), each based on one of the novels of Miguel Delibes; Jarrapellejos (1986) and El aire de un crimen (Scent of a crime, 1988) both filmed by Giménez-Rico and based, respectively, on the novels of Felipe Trigo and Juan Benet; 1919. Crónica del alba (Chronicle of dawn, Antonio Betancor, 1983) and Requiem por un campesino español (Requiem for a Spanish peasant, Francesc Bertriu, 1985), based on the novels of Ramon J. Sender; El bosque animado (The enchanted forest, José Luis Cuerda, 1987), an adaptation of the work of Wenceslao Fernández-Flórez; Tiempo de silencio (Time of silence, Vicente Aranda, 1986), from the novel of Luis Martín Santos; Luces de bohemia (Bohemian lights, Miguel Ángel Díez, 1985) and Divinas palabras (Divine words, J. L. García Sánchez, 1987), adaptations of the theatrical works of Valle-Inclán; Esquilache (Josefina Molina, 1989) and La Lola se va a los puertos (Josefina Molina, 1993), based respectively on Buero Vallejo’s Un soñador para un pueblo (A dreamer for the people), and the Machado brothers’ theatrical piece; La casa de Bernarda Alba (The house of Bernarda Alba, Mario Camus, 1987), an adaptation of García Lorca’s famous drama; are some of the most well known titles. The characteristics that we have identified as most distinctive of the genre, in consequence of the protectionist decree of Pilar Miró, preclude the mentioning of various films of the period. Some because they are adapted from low-status literary texts, such as the detective novels of

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Andreu Martín, Juan Madrid, Jorge Martínez Reverte, Francisco González Ledesma, or Manuel Vázquez Montalbán; or because they are based on purely commercial theatre pieces (whether contemporary or not) with the aim of replicating the success that these might have achieved on the boards. Others are excluded because they break with the aforementioned stylistic austerity and cold perfectionism in an attempt to create a more personal or contemporary reading of the text. With regard to these last, Carlos Losilla points out in his text some examples of this type, of which, curiously, one is the work of the very promulgator of the protectionist law, Pilar Miró: her adaptation of Goethe’s Werther, filmed in 1986 after leaving the General Direction of Cinematography. For Losilla, the film is an attempt to “reconcile classicism with modernity in a strategy that both legitimizes prestige adaptations and proclaims the possibility of surpassing its limitations through a greater contact with the reality of the era and the sensibility of the director” (Losilla 2002, 132). Another example is Víctor Erice’s El sur (The south, 1983), interrupted by the producer Elías Querejeta in an attempt to assimilate it to the then popular current of literary cinema, in which the director acts as a transmitter between the artistic possibilities of the original text and institutional designs (Losilla 2002, 124). The third example is the adaptation of Tiempo de silencio (1986), in which Vicente Aranda exercises an art that is “distante, gélido” (distant, cold), renouncing the turning of the literary text into film in favor of a “literaturization” of the cinematographic text in order to create a productive contrast between both linguistic options (Losilla 2002, 130). Losilla mentions other texts that he feels are models of rupture with regard to the official model, and the attempts by some directors towards the “minimization of the culturalist tendency through an attention to minor authors who had been forgotten or condemned by official intellectuals, but whose work held in fact far more potential for the revitalization of the dialogue between literature and cinema” (Losilla 2002, 135). These films would include Alfonso Ungría’s Soldados (Soldiers, 1978), based on the novel Las buenas intenciones (Good intentions, 1954) by Max Aub; ¡Arriba Hazaña! (Hail Hazaña!, 1978) by José Mª Gutiérrez, based on José María Vaz de Soto’s El infierno y la brisa (Hell and the breeze, 1969), and Gonzalo García Pelayo’s Frente al mar (By the sea, 1978), based on another of Vaz de Soto’s works. Portuguese cinema While the traditional Spanish protectionism with regard to the national film industry, taken up again after the transition to democracy by the Socialist government through the so-called Miró law, made for a tendency towards homogeneity (although this was by no means the intention of those behind the decree, a fact made manifest in Miró’s adaptation of Werther), Portuguese film stands out for its radicality and experimentalism, especially in the period that runs from 1972 until the beginning of the 1990s. The 1980s are a time of international recognition for Portuguese cinema precisely because of this turn away from the canonical, or at least any strict adherence to generic models, in the search for personal discovery. We can return here for a moment to Spain. Despite the many differences between the cinema of the Francoist dictatorship and that of the democracy, the protectionist legislation of the government of the PSOE had as its aim, like that of the Francoist era, the protection and promotion of the national cinema industry. At the start of the 1980s the great enemy of this project was the multiplication of small film companies that produced low-budget and low-quality films in

Notes on the cinematographic canon543 the context of a massive reduction in cinema spectators. In Portugal, at around the same time, there was no need to fight for a film industry, as this was already nonexistent, and the audience for Portuguese film had been definitively lost since the end of the 1940s. The legacy of the Portuguese dictatorship is also very different in reference to film. While it would be possible to write a history of Spanish film in terms of the attempts to encourage a national industry on the part of the state, the changes in political protectionism and the relation with market possibilities, and the search for allies against common enemies, in the Portuguese case things are entirely different. In Portugal, protectionist measures were always timid or arrived late. In this way, the panorama of the 1980s derives directly from the large funding provided by the Calouste Gulbenkian foundation during the final years of the dictatorship, in the wake of the collapse of 1955 and the failures of the few private initiatives, with or without state support, of the 1960s. After the revolution of 25 April 1974, a slow process of normalization of production structures began, which came closer to a European model in which state protection, premised on cultural exceptionality, was not unusual. Beginning in the 1970s, and to only cite some of the films that we have identified as radical in their relating of film and literature — as well as almost the entirety of Manoel de Oliveira’s work, which extends far beyond this time period and which would need an entire essay in order to do it justice — we would have to refer to titles such as Veredas (Trails, João César Monteiro, 1978); Monteiro’s Silvestre (1982); João Botelho’s Conversa acabada (The other one, 1982), which deals with the correspondence between Sá-Carneiro and Fernando Pessoa; Paulo Rocha’s A Ilha dos Amores (Island of loves, 1982), which associates The Lusíadas with classic Japanese poetry, and which is continued in A Ilha de Moraes (Moraes’s island, 1984, although not premiered until 1991). Rocha would follow these with O desejado (The desired one, 1987), in which he tries to find common ground between the Tales of Genji, according to Murasaki, and the Don Juan myth. Finally, and necessarily omitting films of great interest, some of which are short or medium films, we will cite A sétima letra (The seventh letter, 1989), by Simão dos Reis and José Dias de Sousa, which has been termed a “a literary variation on heteronomy” (Bernard da Costa 1991, 179). As we can see from these films, the recent links between literature and film are not exhausted in the phenomenon of adaptation, but go much beyond this, reaching, as we have already stated, a level of experimentation that had repercussions in the most important film festivals, and which has led, as Prado Coelho points out, to the situation in which the 1980s could be considered the point at which Portuguese cinema became internationally recognizable: “a phenomenon that, justly or unjustly, is not the case in other of our artistic activities, whether these are literary, plastic arts, or music” (Prado Coelho 1983, 11). The quantity of adaptations and the radicality of many of the experiments related to the literary, above all in the 1970s and 1980s, occurred precisely in a cinematography that had been always characterized by the scarcity of titles: eight feature-length films per year is not a figure Portugal ever achieved easily. In this sense, Portuguese cinema of these years can be considered quite untypical in the international panorama, and it is worthwhile to attempt a historical map that would help explain it. From its beginnings, Portuguese cinema has always been very linked to literature, not only bacause of the participation within it of dramatists, poets, novelists, and journalists, but also because of the quantity of adaptations that have been realized, independently of their quality (an incomplete but significant report can be found in Luís de Pina 1977, 113–17; see ). It is not venturesome to say that adaptations constitute a high percentage of a filmography that is not particularly extensive. It is interesting in this regard to observe the relation between adaptation and the commercial criteria of producers. Invicta Films was founded in 1918 with the intention of becoming an authentic national producer, concentrating on Portuguese themes. In 1921, with the first adaptation of Camilo Castelo Blanco’s Amor de Perdição (Doomed love), Invicta used the slogan “a celebrated Portuguese novel, shot by a Portuguese company, and interpreted by Portuguese artists.” In fact, this had been central to its politics up until this moment: to treat national problems through the adaptation of works that were already well known. Relevant here is M. Félix Ribeiro’s (1983, 81) description of the launch of A Rosa do Adro (The rose from the churchyard), from the popular novel of Manuel Maria Rodrigues) as it places an emphasis on three principal points: the regional character of the film, the shared experience of its public, and the interest that heretofore unknown aspects of Portuguese experience might inspire in international audiences. These three points are a reflection of parallel interests that the adaptations might capture: that of the national public who were already familiar with the work, the regional audience, who may or may not know the work, but who would be interested in the film because of its local setting, and, finally, the possibility of marketing the film’s distinctive selling points on the international market. The adaptation soon after this film of the work of an author of international prestige, Castelo Branco, signified a major commitment, given the investment made and the care given to setting by a “European” production which aimed to capture the three markets already mentioned. It is interesting, in contrast, to recall the arrangement reached between the newspaper Diário de Notícias and Invicta films in their shared pursuit of a broad public that would provide benefits for both businesses: the paper would publish feuilletons that the producer would immediately turn into films. Of these, only two were made: Amor Fatal (Fatal love) and Barbanegra (Blackbeard, 1920), by George Pallu, both made quickly and with a low budget. The problem that Invicta faced did not have to do so much with the quality of the original works nor with the adaptations — some could be considered excellent by the criteria of the era, others mediocre or simply poor — but with the markets: the interior market was too small and the films failed to make an impact on the international scene, despite the fact that Invictus gradually left to one side its Portuguese policy and contracted French stars for its adaptation of a short story by Perrault (Cendrillon) under the title of Claudia (Ribeiro 1983, 125–26). The arrival of sound meant for Portugal, as for many other countries, the possibility of increasing the number of spectators in the same linguistic area. The writer and theatre critic Álvaro Lima was one of the founders of the Sociedade Universal de Superfilmes, the first production of which was A Severa (1931), directed by José Leitão de Barros and based on the theatrical work of the well-known and popular dramatist Júlio Dantas. Its reception was excellent, both in Portugal and in Brazil. The decade of the thirties was an idyllic moment in terms of the relationship between Portuguese cinema and its own market, despite the fact that the majority of exterior markets remained closed, and that the Brazilian market began to reduce its importation of Portuguese films from the second half of the decade. As M. F. Ribeiro (1983, 347) recalls, these were the years of “block-booking,” in which even American producers sometimes used Portuguese films as bait in order to promote their own films. This seems to be the case in Eduardo Chianca de Garcia’s O Trevo de Quatro Folhas (Four-leaf clover), a film that was deliberately made to fill a gap in the market for light comedy — there were already two historical Portuguese

Notes on the cinematographic canon545 films at the time — and also to stimulate interest among the public of the north of Portugal. This example allows us to underline the fact that the selection of plots and adaptable literary works were often pre-determined by the type of cinematographic genre that was envisioned and also by the type of public that the producers aimed to attract. O Trevo de Quatro Folhas is exceptional, however, in that the literary work was only published after Tomás Ribeiro Colaço’s adaptation to film of his own work. Original screenplays exist alongside adaptations, whether of dramatic works (generally popular comedies) or novels, during this period, but the collaboration of literary authors as screenplay writers was also frequent: Aquilino Méndes wrote the screenplay for de Jorge Brum do Canto’s A Canção da Terra (Song of earth), and the poet Fernanda de Castro wrote the song lyrics for Leitão de Barros’s 1935 film As Pupilas do Senhor Reitor (The Rector’s pupils), which was based on a comedy by Júlio Dinis. This remained the case until after the Second World War, although one could argue that during the 1940s the reification of generic models for Portuguese cinema, a result of which was the constant search for literary works to adapt (a fundamental exception would be Manoel de Oliveira’s Anikí-Bobo [1942], based on José Rodrígues Freitas’s Meninos Milionários [Millionaire children]), began to run against the dominant current of European cinema, Neorealism, a tendency that would be linked with the opposition in Portugal to the Salazar regime. The increasing decline in the interior market left the industry at the end of the decade in a state of incipient crisis, a crisis which the protectionist laws on cinema and the creation of financial aids were unable to prevent. These were belated efforts, if compared to the protectionist system and ideological control of the Spanish authorities, that had the effect of privileging literary adaptations and did not give the expected results. We have here, then, the only formal attempt of the Salazar dictatorship, through António Ferro, to propose a canon through the mediation of genre. We will speak of this below. The crisis worsened in the 1950s, and in 1955 there was no feature-length film produced in Portugal. This “year zero” was to become an important reference point for the change in direction of the following decade. But it is not stretching the point to say that it was the Neorealist paradigm that allowed for new relationships to form between Portuguese cinema and the national literature. Saltimbancos (Acrobats, 1951), directed by Manuel Guimarães, and inspired in Leão Penedo’s novel, El Circo (The circus) is, according to Alves Costa (1978, 108) — who cites a private conversation with the director — an attempt to bring to Portuguese cinema Neorealist techniques. However, the censorship of the time was to disfigure the scant efforts that were made in this direction. In this context, perhaps it is in the area of criticism and the formation of cineclubes (the first of which were created in the 1940s) that we should look for the deepening of relations between cinema and literature. Writers and intellectuals related to Neorealism, such as Alves Redol, Fernando Namora, Fernando Piteira Santos, and José Cardoso Pires participated in a monograph dedicated to the film Saltimbancos, published in the journal Imagem, criticizing the rest of the Portuguese film industry as a “citadel of illiterates and hawkers” (Granja 2003). This movement was to be the target of repression on the part of the dictatorship, which saw it, along with the Neorealist artistic products it promoted, as part of the international strategy of communism. From the ranks of this group, however, a new type of cinema, the so-called Cinema Novo (New Cinema), was to arise. In 1959, another adaptation of Leão Penedo — this time a story — would become the dividing line between the old cinema and the new cinema of

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the 1960s. This was Dom Roberto, directed by Ernesto de Sousa and produced by a cooperative of cineclub enthusiasts. This film, which premiered three years after production, marked, according to Alves Costa (1978, 135), a sea-change in Portuguese film. It was not well received by critics or the public, but at the same time, in its wake Portuguese film would never be the same. In reality, the cineclub movement had been limited by the state’s repressive measures — the last of these, in 1959, had prohibited national meetings. On the other hand, literary Neorealism moved from sociological to existential concerns. Critics, on the other hand, who had ten years previously joined forces to support Saltimbancos, were now divided between the necessity of cinematographic Neorealism and a move towards models such as the nouvelle vague. Finally, faced with a situation of absolute crisis in film, the state took the risky (from their point of view) strategy of relaxing the measures against the cineclub movement and providing scholarships for the protection of cinematography. The first film of this new Portuguese cinema was Paulo Rocha’s Os Verdes Anos (The green years, 1962), which was written in collaboration with Nuno Bragança, one of the representatives of the new Portuguese literature, and with the participation, for the song which functioned as a leitmotif throughout the film, of the poet Pedro Tamen. Another of the key films from this period — which Portuguese historiography bookends at 1967, when Cunha Telles, the principal promoter of this type of film, shut down production — was Domingo à Tarde (Sunday afternoon, 1965), directed by António de Macedo and based on a novel by Fernando Namora. This is an unusual adaptation of an author who at the time enjoyed great prestige. Namora’s work was approached from many different perspectives and styles in this period: Jorge Brum do Canto adapts Retalhos da Vida de un Médico (The country doctor) in 1962, Guimarães took on O Trigo e o Joio (The wheat and the tares) in 1965, and would complete a thirteen-minute documentary on the writer in 1969. During this period the adaptation of contemporary works was the order of the day, whether these were novelistic, as in the case of Namora, or theatrical, such as with the adaptation of Luíz Francisco Rebello’s Pássaros de Asas Cortadas (Birds with clipped wings, Artur Ramos, 1963), or O Crime de Aldeia Velha (The crime of the old town, Manuel Guimarães, 1964), based on Bernardo Santareno’s 1959 work. But without doubt the most arresting and risky case was, again, Oliveira’s work, whose O acto da primavera (Rite of spring, 1963) is a film version of the popular representation of Francisco Vaz de Guimarães’s sixteenth century Auto da Paixão (Passion play). The story of Cinema Novo is very much linked to the producer António Cunha Telles, who decided to leave production and work in distribution in 1967 due to a lack of public support. The new cinema, despite the recognition of the critics and the interest it inspired in international festivals, did not function as a commercial enterprise. But the group of film-makers that grew out of the cineclubs, the scholarships from the government fund to protect cinema, and the experience of Cunha Telles, would attract the involvement of the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation at the end of the 1960s, while at the same time, a process that might seem strange given the conjunction of the interests of the dictatorship and the opposition, meant that this generation of new film-makers would eventually take control of all the public institutions linked to film (Monteiro 2000). The Gulbenkian’s first involvement with production came with Oliveira’s 1972 film, O Pasado e o Presente (Past and present), based on the dramatic work of Vicente Sánchez, and Paulo Rocha’s A Pousada das Chagas (The hostel of Chagas):

Notes on the cinematographic canon547 Pousada das Chagas was a job sent from heaven. The Gulbenkian Foundation had created a museum of sacred art in Óbidos and they wanted to make a documentary about this. It was 1970, and, after Mudar de Vida (Change one’s life) of 1966, I had stopped thinking about classic cinema. The task was urgent and there was no time to think. I filled my bags with scraps of paper — citations from Rimbaud, Légende Dorée, Camões, Lao-Tse — and went to Óbidos to film with Luís Miguel Cintra and Jorge Silva Melo, both of an almost insolent talent. What resulted was a modernist sacral drama, a collage of voices, texts, objects, spaces, pulsations. Bodies that burn, suffer, irradiate energy. (Paulo Rocha, quoted in amordeperdição.pt, under A Pousada das Chagas)

Both films are unusual approaches to literature, which cannot be understood without the previous experiments of the Cinema Novo that led the way to the free use of texts and literary references in these two works. The question of fidelity to the original text while at the same time maintaining the specificity of the cinematographic medium ceases to be a problem that has to be resolved and becomes more an element with which to work and play. It can be argued, as we have done, that Portuguese film, at least since the beginning of the 1970s, is atypical with regard to its European context, and especially so if we relate it to Spain. As we have suggested, this exceptionality is understandable from a historical point of view. The weakness of the internal market and the difficulty of exporting to foreign markets, the dictatorship and the control that it applied to cinema, added to the Portuguese public’s distance from national cinema for an exceptionally long period, which began in the 1940s and only begn to improve in the 1980s, produced the collapse of private initiative and the dependence on institutions whose aims are not simply profit motivated. The radicalism and the quality, as well as the quantity (considerable in a film industry that produces few feature length films per year) of experimental films that arise after 1972 can be explained, in the short term, precisely by the funding provided by the Gulbenkian Foundation after Portuguese film’s long period of crisis. To this we should add the “takeover” of the positions of institutional power by the generation of Cinema Novo. However, this does not explain the quantity of innovative experiments, related to literature, that characterize Portuguese film from the 1970s until recent times. We have already spoken of the traditional links between Portuguese cinema and literature. It is necessary to return to the long years of dictatorship to make sense of this relation. As opposed to Francoist Spain, Salazar’s regime delayed in imposing measures. The creation of the Fundo do Cinema Nacional in 1948 took place when Portuguese cinema-goers had already forsaken their national cinema, and its foundation had more to do with ideological control and the cultural education of the population (aims which manifest the contradictions typical of dictatorial states) than it had to do with the promotion of a viable film industry. However, this desire to raise the cultural level of the population was not arbitrary; it was seen as part of a necessary element in the modernization of the economy (Barroso 2000), as was the necessity of controlling the content of the imagined films. But the contemporary literature of the time, linked to neorealist movements, whether in their social or existential forms, acted as an outlet for opposition to the regime. It is in this context that we can understand the discourse of Antonio Ferro — a Salazar propagandist — in which he attempts to establish the bases of the strategy of the fund for the protection of cinema. Ferro places the adaptation of novels and theatre after the adaptation of works with historical, folk, or detective/crime subject matter in the list for the granting of financial support. As Alves Costa (1978, 94) notes, the reference to adaptations appears to be qualified by two criteria, referring to the

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work and the approach of the film, that if not explicitly obeyed would lead to censorship rather than financing. It is important to note here that Ferro refers to genres, and that he understands adaptations as one genre and those films with a “poetic essence,” such as Oliveira’s Anikí-Bobo, as another. Leaving aside these contradictions, the genre that is lowest in Ferro’s considerations is precisely the one that had traditionally had the greatest acceptance: the popular comedy, which Ferro thought highly pernicious, and which, he remarked, could apply for funding as long as they did not “exploit that which is backward, vulgar, in the lives of our streets or in the behavior of certain social groups.” Finally, Ferro concludes by formulating an important affirmation with regard to the films that would achieve economic funding: “they will not be films of guaranteed commercial success, but it was for this kind of film, precisely, that the Fundo do Cinema Nacional was established, so as to help in the indispensable battle to rehabilitate Portuguese cinema and elevate the level of public taste” (Ferro 1950, 69). It is useful, then, to underline the continuity between the political interest of the state in cinema as a medium that would undermine certain aspects of popular culture, using it as a means to elevate the cultural level of the country, and the generation of inheritors of the movement of cineclubs (and whose first works fit within the movement of the European New Cinema), who consider cinema as a cultural fact of modernity, independent of its political affiliation and of the opinions of each creator with regard to popular culture. Only in this way can we understand how, in the final stages of the dictatorship, a private and exclusively cultural institution, the Gulbenkian Foundation, takes charge of the national cinematography, at the behest of film-makers and with the support of the members of their generation who occupy positions of responsibility in the institutions related to film. In this way, film-makers can experiment without fear of public rejection: literature, understood in a broad sense that is not reducible to adaptation, plays in these circumstances a fundamental role. It is true that Portuguese cinema in this period was to have an ever greater presence in international film festivals, but it is also true that its national public ignored it definitively. After the end of the dictatorship, the subsequent revolutionary period, and institutional normalization, this international re-evaluation was maintained and even increased. Portuguese cinema was “rehabilitated” and the most important festivals proclaimed its products. This was also the case on a national level, as “culture,” but the price paid for this prestige was high. The central question is whether Portuguese cinema became incomprehensible to its own public, and if this is true, whether there is a possibility of “reconciliation.” This reconciliation seemed to arrive, both in the opinion of Prado Coelho (1983), and that of Bernard da Costa (2004), with the Lauro Antonio’s film Manhã Submersa (Morning undersea, 1980), based on the life of the novelist Virgilio Ferreira, with Ferreira himself as actor. This film, based on the life of a writer connected with Neorealism, however much it contributes to its transformation, is significant not only because it managed to communicate its message to a mass public from the adaptation of a work that would not have been undertaken some years previously, but also because in this reencounter with a mass audience some formal difficulties of adaptation were avoided. As Prado Coelho (1983, 114) writes, the film is made from the “mold of American cinema but with the interior temporality of a discreetly European mentality.” From this moment on there are two distinct tendencies within Portuguese cinema: the public will begin to demand “films for Bragança and not for Paris,” while at the same time directors such as Manoel de Oliveira, João César Monteiro, or Paulo Rocha will be acclaimed at

Notes on the cinematographic canon549 international festivals, and cinema will become the most prominent cultural ambassador for Portuguese culture in the wider world. To these must be added the rebirth of private initiatives that are partially subsidized by the state, which also finances experimental work, as does the Gulbenkian Foundation. The correlation between literature and cinema during this period has to do with a shared experimentalism. Some works, the most radical, explore the distance between that which is supposedly specific to each medium, whether literary description or visual display, or between oral literature and high culture; others attempt to establish correspondences with nonEuropean literatures, or take a fragment of a literary work as a mere pretext in the development of an audiovisual text, etc., although there are also films which take a more traditional approach to the cinematographic adaptation of a pre-existing literary text. Finally, it is worth noting that, as we get closer to the present day, this atypical situation is only sustainable with the existence of a network of cinema theatres linked to the national territory. The public are now more varied and demand more diverse products, which allows for the production and distribution strategies of Paulo Branco. A Portuguese film no longer needs a solely Portuguese cinema-going public in order to be financially viable. In the final instance, there is the possibility of making a profit through adjacent markets, especially on national television networks, which during the 1980s showed Portuguese films during prime-time hours. On the other hand, the tendency towards international co-productions points to the possibility of capturing international audiences, guided, in many instances, by successes in international film festivals. International television audiences, and, to a lesser degree, DVD sales, justify in part the investment in films that will not make a profit solely through box-office receipts. To conclude, it is important to underline the difficulty, already mentioned at the start of this chapter, of establishing theoretical premises with regard to the relation between cinema and literature with conceptual tools such as the canonization and ascription to genres without taking into account the historical and political variables at play in the evolution of markets. With regard to the political variables that influence adaptation, it is clear that there are differences in the ways both countries’ systems of protection and control are linked to the literary — in Spain in a very direct way, in a more complex manner in the Portuguese case. These differences would seem to point to distinct ways of responding to modernity, differences that would require a comparative study of both countries’ starting points and the speed and extent to which they insert themselves within processes of globalization.

Television in Spain and Portugal From the public monopoly to the new transmedia environment Concepción Cascajosa Virino Introduction. Television in the Iberian Peninsula Spain and Portugal share the space of the Iberian Peninsula and its television systems, and have some defining characteristics in common (see Palacio 2001; Rueda Laffond & Chicharro 2006; Teves 2007). First, I need to point out the fact that, in southern Europe, the top three countries (with the exception of Italy) have been marked by a long period of totalitarian regimes: Salazar in Portugal, Franco in Spain and the Regime of the Colonels in Greece (Noam 1991, 244–55). Therefore, television was long thought of as a tool for social control in the hands of non-elected governments. That does not mean that television did not offer some interesting issues to the nascent viewing public. But for many years, the content of television news was closely monitored to show a vision of national and international affairs that was suitable to the dictatorial regimes, much in the same way that the state-owned television monopolies were doing in democratic countries such as France and Italy. The difference was that controls were tighter and escape routes almost impossible. Censorship was not only a menace, but an established working limitation until the moment that both Spain and Portugal entered the path of democracy. But, although both countries were dictatorships until the mid-1970s, television in Spain and Portugal shared some common elements with what was happening in the rest of the continent. Television was introduced as a sign of progress and technical achievement in two countries long characterized by poverty and the underdevelopment of their technical infrastructure. As we will see, the inaugural transmission was much publicized to the public as a matter of national pride and celebrated with some festivities. After a few years, television sets were cheap enough to be bought by the middle-class and then the working-class, transforming television into the national form of entertainment. Musical programs, sports, and plays were the most popular genres. In the period of growth, the lion’s share of the resources were allocated to building the technical infrastructure, so television started soon to travel outside the big cities of Madrid, Lisbon, Barcelona, and Porto, in a slow but unstoppable expansion of coverage. The small market for advertising meant that there was little funding for original production of content, so early programming in both Spain and Portugal included American television programs. If the international showing of American programs allowed a kind of “global history” of the medium, both countries shared that history. Even today, the older generations remember with nostalgia the recognizable opening music of the western Bonanza, the terrifying stories of Alfred Hitchcock presents, the injustice that fell upon Dr. Kimble in The fugitive and the thrilling action of Hawaii five-0. Broadcasting was used by the isolated Spain and Portugal to forge a link with the rest of Europe. Portugal, through the national radio company Emissora Nacional, was a founding member of the European Broadcasting Union (EBU) in 1950 (Henrich-Franke 2012, 33–48). Spain began to feel part of Europe by joining the EBU in 1955. Five years later, Spain was the first of the two countries to adhere to the Eurovision Network, the system developed for the exchange of doi 10.1075/chlel.29.44vir © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Television in Spain and Portugal551 programming between its European members. The first transmission was the broadcast of a Real Madrid-Nice match on 2 March 1960. With the wedding of Spanish aristocrat Fabiola de Mora y Aragón and the King of Belgium in December of the same year, the country would experience her first international television event. In December of 1965, Portuguese television inaugurated its link to the Eurovision Network. In January of the following year, in a special program coproduced by the television channels of Spain and Portugal, the Spanish Minister of Information and Tourism, Manuel Fraga, announced that Eurovision was an opportunity to improve relations between the two countries. We need to remember that, because of their geographic proximity, Spanish TV can be watched in nearly a quarter of the territory of Portugal. In the following years, many programs were produced taking advantage of this link. For Portugal, the late arrival of Eurovision allowed the Portuguese to watch the World Cup in England the following summer, in which the Portuguese team finished in the third place. In anticipation of its first participation in the Eurovision Song Contest, it launched the long running program Grande Prémio da Canção Portuguesa (1964–), which, in 1979, adopted the name Festival RTP da Canção. Both in Spain and Portugal television played a crucial role in the arrival of democracy after the long dictatorships of Franco and Salazar. That was particularly true after the failed coup d’états in Portugal in 1975 and in Spain in 1981, where broadcasting a message by the head of state (General Morais da Silva and King Juan Carlos respectively) was critical to stopping the spread of the military insurrection. It is interesting to note how in both countries television and politics were strongly bound together. Adolfo Suárez, the prime minister chosen by King Juan Carlos to guide the transition to democracy in 1976, was a top executive of the radio and television system between 1969 and 1973. In Portugal, Lieutenant Colonel António Ramalho Eanes was named the director of the radio and television system after the triumph of the democratizing coup d’état known as the Carnation Revolution in 1974. Two years later, he was elected as the first democratic president of the Portuguese Third Republic. In the following years, Spain and Portugal would share a common international policy as members of the European Economic Community and later the European Union. As such, they were forced to introduce private channels in the early 1990s and to start a bumpy road to digital terrestrial television in the first decade of the new millennium. And, as we will see in the last part of this chapter, they had to overcome economic difficulties to embrace the new transmedia environment.

The origins of television under the dictatorship Radio came to Spain very early with the creation of the Iberian Telecommunication Company in 1917. As in all Western countries, there was an early interest in television: in 1929 the Anglo Spanish Electricity Company installed in its window display in Barcelona a television set bought in London. On November 25, 1934, the first public display of the two-way television system Fonovisión (a gift of German Reichspost to General Franco as a sign of sympathy for his cause by the Nazi regime), took place. Franco and his assistant, Commander Martínez Maza, were the protagonists of an experimental test, according to some publications from the period (the relationship of Francisco Franco and the television medium is explained in detail in Palacio 2005). With the country mired in political repression and hunger after the end of the Civil War, television did not return to Spain with experimental exhibitions until many years later. In June

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of 1948, Philips offered an exhibition of experimental television with regular programming at the XVI International Fair of Barcelona, and in August of the same year RCA transmitted a bullfight from Vistalegre to the Palace of Beaux Arts in Madrid that was a failure due to the poor state of the electric installation (for a history of the pioneers of television in Spain, see Rodríguez Márquez & Martínez Uceda 1992). But technical problems and limited resources did not deter the small group of engineers working under the direction of Colonel Luis Guijarro, who spent the next years carrying out experimental tests in the Paseo de la Habana in Madrid. In 1952 an experimental television service was created under the Ministry of Information and Tourism, with Joaquín Sánchez Cordobés as chief engineer and José Luis Colina as head of programming. They were the leaders of a group of pioneers that against all odds began test broadcasts in 1955 with two weekly programs hosted by David Cubedo and Laura Valenzuela. Also that year, and after the lack of initiative from the government, the First National Congress of Telecommunication Engineers developed a National Television Plan, which established the future expansion of television. The regular broadcasting television service from the Paseo de la Habana in Madrid started on October 28, 1956, the Feast of Christ the King and the twenty-third anniversary of the founding of Spanish Falange, the fascist political party that inspired the national-catholic dictatorship of Francisco Franco. This was not a casual date: Jesús Suevos, director of Broadcasting in Franco’s government, was a prominent Falangist and from now on television began to play a role in the conflict among the political families inside the regime. A religious blessing, political speeches, documentaries and musical numbers were part of the inaugural transmission. Francisco Franco followed the event, without participating, through a receiver installed in the Palacio del Pardo, his residence. Franco, a notorious film buff, was not interested in the new medium in a significant way. That is the reason why Franco took no interest in television and the control of the medium fell upon the political families with more interest in mass media, as well as the Opus Dei organization. Franco’s TV set was one among the between four and six hundred sets in Spain at the time. With the efforts to levy charges on each receiver failing and limited investment by the state, funding for television began to rely on advertising, with sponsored programs such as Festival Marconi (Marconi Festival, TVE, 1956–57) and La hora Phillips (The Phillips hour, TVE, 1957–59). In August 1959 the project of creating a national television network, called Televisión Española (TVE), began to take shape with the opening of a second station in Barcelona, called Miramar Studios, which soon was producing a fifth of the programming of TVE. By 1964 television had already arrived in the distant Canary Islands, extending its national coverage. Advertising revenues grew significantly in this period and they almost covered the full budget of TVE. With the abolition of the luxury tax on television in 1961, and the implementation of measures to promote the monthly payment as a way to promote spending, the real expansion of television began in Spain. The number of TV sets grew so fast that almost four million units were in use by the end of the decade. As television became a widespread domestic commodity in the cities, the rural areas were served by a network of three thousand tele-clubs scattered throughout the Spanish geography, a way to promote the new medium among the lower classes, offering educational and religious programming and also entertainment. TVE, following a general trend of national channels all around Europe, scheduled a mix of national and populist programming, with special emphasis on entertainment programs like Gran Parada (Grand parade, TVE 1959–63), Reina por un día (Queen for a day, TVE, 1964–65) and Un millón para el mejor

Television in Spain and Portugal553 (A million for the best, TVE, 1968–69). With a significant proportion of the television schedule occupied by American series, original fiction was more limited, including La casa de los Martínez (House of Martínez, TVE, 1967–1971), which combined fiction and talk-show; El Séneca (TVE, 1967–70), written by Falangist José María Pemán; and Crónicas de un pueblo (Chronicles of a village, TVE, 1971–74), a comedy-drama series directed by Antonio Mercero devoted to explaining to the Spanish population the recently-passed National Laws. However, the most famous fiction program of the period was Estudio 1 (Studio 1, 1964–85), which offered adaptations of classic and contemporary theatrical masterpieces. With the new financial resources available due to the increasing advertising revenues, TVE was able to move to a modern and spacious facility on the outskirts of Madrid, Prado del Rey, and undertake the project of creating a second channel in 1964. The UHF, as it was known during its early years, was organized as a completely different entity from the first channel, with its own staff and budget. Its first director was Salvador Pons, a veteran of the Ministry of Information and Tourism who hired for the new channel a batch of new graduates of the Official Film School (EOC), including talented writers and directors such as Claudio Guerin Hill, Pedro Olea, Iván Zulueta, Mario Camus, and Josefina Molina. Although the channel began test broadcasts on January 1, 1965, the regular broadcasts, just a few hours a week and always during the night period, did not start until November of the following year. The second channel was established with programming targeting cultivated audiences. Its most well-known offerings included the documentary series Conozca usted España (Know Spain, TVE, 1966–69), the youth magazine Último grito (Last scream, TVE, 1968–69), the literary anthology Cuentos y leyendas (Tales and legends, TVE, 1968–76), the experimental dramatic anthology Hora 11 (11th hour, 1968–72), and a program devoted to silent films, Sombras recobradas (Recovered shadows, TVE, 1971–74). The artistic quality of the production of the second channel was an important effort by TVE to get a significant presence at television festivals. To achieve that goal, José Luis Colina commissioned special programs from the young writer and director Narciso Ibáñez Serrador, the scion of a famous family of performers who had developed his television skills with a remarkable career in Argentine television before moving to Spain in 1964. With impressive stylistic features, Ibáñez Serrador won an astonishing number of international awards with the special programs El último reloj (The last clock, TVE, 1964), NN23 (TVE, 1965) and El asfalto (The asphalt, TVE, 1966), but his biggest triumph was Historia de la frivolidad (History of frivolity, TVE, 1967), cowritten with dramatist Jaime de Armiñán. A history of the world and its relationship with sexuality in musical and satirical form, Historia de la frivolidad is both the most awarded work in the history of Spanish TV and a striking example of how the medium allowed a significant amount of freedom when the programming served the national interest. In this case, the program tried to show the world that Spain had an open mind to sexuality and a sense of humor, although it was only broadcast during the late-night to qualify for the festival, and it was not scheduled in prime time after its international success. Ibáñez Serrador also made his mark with his horror and science-fiction anthology series Historias para no dormir (Stories to keep you awake, TVE, 1966–68, 1974, 1982) and the entertainment program Un, dos, tres… responda otra vez (One, two, three… Answer again, TVE, 1972–93, 2004), a hybrid between quiz show and competition show that displayed spectacular musical numbers and delivered substantial prizes to the winners, a premise well-timed in a period of increased economic prosperity in Spain (for an exploration of the relevant figure of Narciso Ibáñez Serrador, see Cascajosa 2010).

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In the case of Portugal, the development of television followed a similar path. In 1935 a public network was formed with the name of National Emissora Radiodifusão, based on the principles of public service and funded by a fee for the use of the receivers. In early 1953 National Emissora formed the Grupo de Estudos de Televisão to study the introduction of the television, which was soon followed by a parallel commission appointed by the government of António de Oliveira Salazar with representatives of the National Emissora, private radio operators, and the Administração-Geral dos Correios, Telégrafos e Telefones. With the recommendations of both groups, the government issued a decree granting a single TV license for a period of twenty years (renewable for periods of ten years thereafter). The license was granted to a corporation that took the form of a limited company: RTP (Radiotelevisão Portugal), owned by the Portuguese state, private radio stations, provincial governments, and banks. In September 1956 RTP introduced its first experimental broadcasts during the Feira Popular of Lisbon in Santa Gertrudes Park, where a studio and an open area with receivers were installed. This was not the debut of television in Portugal, since a year earlier a group of German manufacturers had offered a similar exhibition ​​during the Feira Popular in Porto. The Lisbon exhibition, which took place from September 4 to 30, began with an inaugural program presented by Raul Feio, and included the participation of Monsignor Lopes da Cruz, President of the General Assembly of RTP. That first program also offered filmed news reports, a sports magazine where the recent winner of the Tour of Portugal was interviewed, and political commentaries. Following the success of these tests, RTP focused on the preparation of network facilities and the construction of a transmitter in Lisbon. On March 7, 1957, RTP began regular broadcasts with a program made up of musical performances (Canções a Granel [Bulk of songs]), news (Noticiário [Newscast]), interviews (Miradoiro [Viewpoint]), documentaries, and a live ballet (Os Enganos do Amor [Deceptions of love]). Just four days later, RTP offered its first play, an adaptation of the classic Monólogo do Vaqueiro (Monologue of the herdsman) by Gil Vicente, followed in the next weeks by adaptations of works by international authors and Portuguese writers such as Miguel Torga and Camilo Castelo Branco. With a mix of movies, documentaries, news programs, live interviews and musical performances, RTP broadcast in its first year more than six hundred hours. Starting with only a thousand recipients in the city of Lisbon, the number of televisions gradually grew to over thirty thousand in 1958, when RTP achieved coverage of 60 percent of the continental population. Throughout the following years, RTP gradually expanded its coverage, reaching other cities such as Porto and Coimbra. With the increased funding from advertising, RTP could offer a significant number of hours of weekly broadcasts, including fiction and entertainment programs acquired from the United States. Looking for new viewers, RTP focused on content that could be attractive to the general public, such as variety shows and sport competitions. In February of 1958, RTP broadcast the first live football game and that same year showed the investiture of Admiral Américo Thomaz as President of the Republic. Portugal’s historical dependence on agriculture had its reflection in the long-lasting Sunday television program TV Rural (Rural TV, RTP, 1960–1990). Spectacular varieties such as A Rua d’Iliza (A street of Iliza, RTP, 1966) and A Bola de Sabão (A ball of soap, RTP, 1966) became one of the main attractions of RTP. The broadcast of television plays was expanded and RTP also launched its first series: the comedy A Lena e o Carlos (Lena and Carlos, 1960), Aventuras de Eva (The adventures of Eva, 1961), starring Brazilian actress Eva Todor, and the early telenovela Gente Nova (New people, 1969).

Television in Spain and Portugal555 On December 25, 1968, in the year in which three hundred thousand new television sets were registered, RTP inaugurated a second channel, RTP2, which focused on Portuguese culture, and whose programming was produced in collaboration with educational and cultural institutions. That year also marked the beginning of the Marcelist Spring, the period of openness that followed the appointment of Marcelo Caetano to replace Salazar after his health problems. The program that symbolized this period was the talk-show Zip-Zip (RTP 1969), hosted by Raul Solnado, José Fialho Gouveia, and Carlos Cruz. It was the first Portuguese program with participation from the attendant public, but between its Saturday recording in a Lisbon theater and the Monday broadcast, a review was conducted to censor comments uncomfortable for the government. In this period of political instability, with the colonial question an element of conflict within the regime, RTP established new television services. On August 6, 1972, RTP Madeira was inaugurated and three years later was the turn of RTP Açores. In 1973 Portuguese Radiotelevisão of Angola (RPA) was created.

Winds of change: democratic television and the arrival of the private channels In Spain the final and oppressive period of Franco’s dictatorship was represented metaphorically in the TV special La cabina (The phone booth, 1972), by Antonio Mercero. The program, about a man (the famous actor José Luis López Vazquez) helplessly trapped inside a phone booth and later transported to a forgotten storage and left to die, caused a splash and until now it is the only Spanish winner of an International Emmy. Following comprehensive coverage of the funeral of Franco in November 1975, TVE symbolized this new period by broadcasting the coronation of King Juan Carlos I in color, a not-so-subtle way to mark the beginning of a new era. To the contemporary viewer, it is striking to see side by side the footage of Prime Minister Carlos Arias Navarro announcing the death of Franco in black and white and then the coronation of the new king in color, a clear indication of the control that his collaborators and sympathizers had of the public television. To pilot the transition to democracy, King Juan Carlos appointed Adolfo Suárez as Prime Minister in July 1976. Suárez had been a top executive of TVE between 1969 and 1973 and was one the political supporters of the process of openness conducted by the network in that controversial period. During the year and a half between the death of the dictator and the first democratic elections in the summer of 1977, TVE introduced a batch of innovative programming: the political program La clave (The key, TVE, 1976–85), in which the broadcast of a film was followed by a debate; the cultural programs Encuentros con las artes y las letras (Encounters with the arts and letters, TVE, 1976–81) and A fondo (In deep, TVE, 1976–81); the fiction series with subtle political commentary Curro Jiménez (TVE, 1976–78) and Verano azul (Summer blue, TVE, 1981–82); the docudramas La España de los Botejara (The Spain of the Botejara, TVE, 1978) and Vivir cada día (To live every day, TVE, 1978–88); and prestigious literary adaptations such as Benito Pérez Galdós’s Fortunata and Jacinta (TVE, 1980) and Torrente Ballester’s Los gozos y las sombras (The joys and shadows, TVE, 1981). In this period there was also some recognition of the different cultural identities of Spain. In October 1977 the territorial Circuit of Catalonia offered full coverage of the return of the exiled President of the Generalitat (Catalonian Government), Josep Tarradellas, and started to produce plays and dramatic series in Catalan, such as La saga dels Rius (The Rius saga, 1977) and La Plaça del Diamant (Diamond square, 1983; for a comprehensive

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account of the role of TVE during the transition to democracy, see Palacio 2012). Although TVE did not broadcast live the assault on the Parliament during the investiture of Leopoldo Calvo Sotelo as Prime Minister on February 23, 1981, it made ​​good use of the footage of the failed military coup d’état as a symbol of consolidation the democratization process. The Statute of Radio and Television of 1980 settled a new legislative framework based on the administrative autonomy of public radio and television and the creation of RTVE, which had operated since 1977 as an autonomous body to avoid a change in executive structure after every ministerial reform (there were five presidents of radio and television between 1973 and 1977, and three between 1981 and 1982). With the arrival of the new Socialist government, a new trend of programming was introduced. Some of the highlights of the period were the avantgarde children’s program La bola de cristal (The crystal ball, TVE, 1984–88), musical showcase La edad de oro (The Golden age, TVE, 1983–85), contemporary drama Anillos de oro (Golden Rings, TVE, 1983), written by playwright Ana Diosdado and devoted to the new divorce law; legal drama Turno de oficio (Court representation, TVE, 1986–87), directed by Antonio Mercero and focused on the justice system; and comedy Las chicas de hoy en día (Today’s girls, TVE, 1991–92), directed by Fernando Colomo and starring two young actresses, Andalusian Diana Peñalver and Catalan Carmen Conesa. TVE also produced several high-budget series based on works dealing with the Second Republic and the Civil War in an early exercise of historical memory: La forja de un rebelde (The forging of a rebel, TVE, 1990), Los jinetes del alba (Riders of the dawn, TVE, 1991), Lorca, muerte de un poeta (Lorca, death of a poet, TVE, 1987–88), the latter a biography of the world-renowned poet killed during the first months of the Civil War, directed by veteran filmmaker Juan Antonio Bardem. In this period Spanish television did not remain oblivious to the construction of a new state model based on autonomous regions, the so-called “state of the autonomies.” Despite the efforts of TVE to strengthen its regional centers, soon the newly established regional governments of the historical regions of Basque Country and Catalonia founded their own channels: Euskal Telebista (ETB) in the Basque Country, which began regular broadcasts on February 16, 1983, and TV3 in Catalonia, which started regular broadcasting on September 10, 1983, on the eve of the National Day of Catalonia (“la Diada”). It was a fait accompli action because a legislative framework for the creation of regional channels did not arrive until the passing of the Third Channel Law in December of that year. The main task of the two networks was linguistic normalization with the full use of the respective native languages (TV3 ​​ bought the American series Dallas to be broadcast in Catalan). The other region with its own language, Galicia, followed with the creation of Televisión de Galicia (TVG), which began regular broadcasts on July 24, 1985 (eve of National Day of Galicia), while the regions of Andalusia (Canal Sur, February 28, 1989, the Day of Andalusia), Madrid (Telemadrid, May 2, 1989, Feast of the Community of Madrid), and the Valencian Country (Canal Nou, October 9, 1989, Valencian Community Day) completed the first phase of expansion of regional television in Spain. In Portugal, television played a prominent role in the Carnation Revolution that began on the night of April 24, 1974. The song that represented Portugal in the Eurovision Song Contest that year, E Depois do Adeus (After saying goodbye) by José Calvário, was one of the two broadcast by radio to signal the start of the uprising. A few hours later, the military rebels took the RTP headquarters in Lisbon, but the lack of control over the main transmitter and the facilities in Porto, prevented a television message supporting the leaders of the coup, Movimento das

Television in Spain and Portugal557 Forças Armadas, from being broadcast until the afternoon of the next day. In any case, RTP workers sent footage via the Eurovision network to the rest of the continent. In the early hours of April 26, after the success of the coup, members of the National Salvation Junta and its president, General António de Spinola, appeared on television to speak to the Portuguese nation. On November 25, 1975, television again played a role in another coup, this time failed, offering entertainment programming and broadcasting a message from the President, General Morais da Silva. A month later, amid tensions within the army and leftist groups, RTP was nationalized. Its former president, Lieutenant Colonel António Ramalho Eanes, took office on July 14, 1976 as the first democratically-elected president of Portugal. Television in Portugal experienced a slow process of modernization and openness with the arrival of democracy. In October of 1978, RTP2 was established as an independent entity from RTP1, but maintained the cultural profile of its programming. The filmmaker Fernando Lopes, founding member of RTP team, was named director of the channel and helped create a Portuguese television documentary school (his own documentary Lisbon in 1979 was part of that legacy). RTP managed to improve its funding by getting autonomy for the collection of the receiver fee and announced the PAL system for its color programming. Technical problems prevented the color transmission until March 7, 1980, when it was introduced for the annual edition of Festival RTP da Canção. In the fiction field, RTP tried to offer new formats with the introduction of the first Portuguese police series Zé Gato (RTP 1979–80), about a police agent in Lisbon. The Portuguese television links with the Latin American marketplace, and especially Brazil, were a key source of new programming, with the introduction of the Portuguese telenovela, with its limited number of episodes. Vila Faia (RTP 1982), starring a winery-owning family, was the first Portuguese telenovela. Its authors Francisco Nicholson and Nicolau Breyner were also the creators of other telenovelas such as Origens (Origins, 1983), which included musical elements, and Verão Quente (Hot summer, 1993–94), about the return to Portugal of an immigrant who made his fortune in Brazil. With Ricardina e Marta (1989), an adaptation of the works by Camilo Castelo Branco, Portugal offered its first historical telenovela, following a trend already popular in Brazil. During the 1980s, both Spain and Portugal experienced economic growth and the consolidation of the new democratic institutions. In 1986 both countries joined the European Economic Community, the organization that later became the European Union, which allowed them to receive huge amounts of money for the development of infrastructures, but it also linked regulation frameworks in many areas to decisions taken by the European institutions. During the 1980s, these regulations pushed for the ending of the public television monopolies, stimulus packages for the media industry, and the joint production of programming through the co-production model. In Spain, the socialist government tried to delay the introduction of the private channels as long as possible, even against the ruling of the Supreme Court. Finally, a legislative framework was established with the passing of the Private Television Law in May 1988. In the resulting competition for the three broadcasting licenses that the government intended to grant, the winners were companies based in radio and publishing organizations: Antena 3, Telecinco, and Canal Plus. The new channel Antena 3 was based on the radio network of the same name with support from the newspapers La Vanguardia and ABC. It was the first to start regular transmissions on January 25, 1990 with programming heavily shaped by its radio counterpart, including many news and public-affairs programs. Antena 3 scored an early success with the comedy Farmacia de guardia (Pharmacy on duty, A3, 1991–95), a family series created by veteran Antonio Mercero that adapted

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the traditional Spanish comedy style to a new audience, a path that the channel carried on in the following years with other successes such as Los ladrones van a la oficina (The thieves go to the office, A3, 1993–96), starring venerable thespians Fernando Fernán Gómez, Agustín González, and Manuel Alexandre, and Menudo es mi padre (What a father, A3, 1996–98), in which the popular singer El Fary took a starring role. Budget concerns and problems with management led to the sale of the channel to the publishing company Zeta Group in 1992, which conducted an overhaul of programming to include more entertainment programs and the expensive signing of professionals from the public channels, which enabled Antena 3 to take the leading position in the ratings in 1994 for the first time. The second private channel, Telecinco, was modeled after the Italian Canale 5, owned by Silvio Berlusconi’s Mediaset. The network began broadcasting regularly on March 3, 1990 with a musical variety extravaganza. During its early years, Telecinco imitated its Italian referent to offer popular entertainment programs such as VIP (T5 1990–92), and content close to eroticism with the constant appearance in its programs of Italian dancers “Cacao Maravillao” and “Mamachicho” (the latter finishing her number topless), and programming aimed at young people, such as La quinta marcha (The fifth gear, 1990–93), hosted by the future Academy Award-winner Penélope Cruz. But economic problems led in 1993 to a shift in the corporate identity of the network to urban and middle-class viewers. In addition to the impetus given to the news, the content that best embodied this change was a new trend of fiction series developed by the independent production company Globomedia that combined dramatic storylines with others more comical, and sought to reach a wide spectrum of viewers in terms of demographics. The most prominent of this new type of fiction series was the hugely successful Médico de familia (Family doctor, T5, 1995–99), which was followed by the professional series Periodistas (Journalists, T5, 1998–2002). The channel also introduced a wide range of magazines and gossip talk-shows such as ¡Qué me dices! (What you say!, T5, 1995–98), but also the political satire Caiga quien caiga (Come hell or high water, T5, 1996–2007), an adaptation of an Argentine format. The third private channel, Canal Plus, achieved a special license for pay TV, which caused complaints of favoritism because the socialist government had a close relationship with its owner, the PRISA Group, and the possibility of giving a pay TV license had not been announced beforehand. Canal Plus was a joint project with the French channel Canal+. Canal Plus focused on recent films, football matches, boxing, and bullfighting, and it gained numerous subscribers after a few months as the first and only specialized channel in Spain. In the mid-1990s, Canal Plus became the basis for a satellite pay-TV called Canal Satellite Digital (CSD). Its control over football television rights allowed CSD to reach around a million subscribers, although a long conflict with another pay-tv platform, Via Digital, owned by the Telefónica Group and supported by the then-governing Popular Party, sparked a trade war that ended up causing huge losses to both companies. As a result, in 2003 the companies merged to create a new platform Digital+. It was another clear example of the traditional submission of television policies to the interest of the two main Spanish political parties, the Socialist Party and the Popular Party. While private television consolidated its content offering fiction, entertainment, and competition reality-shows, introduced in Spain with Gran Hermano (Big brother, T5, 2000–), public broadcaster TVE managed to rejuvenate its audience with the talent-show Operación Triunfo (Operation triumph, TVE, 2001–04) and the nostalgic drama Cuéntame cómo pasó (Tell me how it happened, TVE, 2001–), which followed a middle-class family from the late 1960s through

Television in Spain and Portugal559 the arrival of democracy. A critical and commercial success, Cuéntame cómo pasó was the basis for half a dozen international remakes in Portugal, Italy, Latin America, and Eastern Europe. In June 2006 the public broadcaster was the protagonist of a legislative change that involved the canceling of its massive debt and its transformation into a separate entity, TVE Corporation. The last major changes in the Spanish television system started in the spring of 2005, when the newly-elected socialist government announced the process of turning Canal+ into a new channel without subscription, called Cuatro, and the granting of a new license of private television, finally obtained by a consortium led by two companies close to the government, Mediapro and Globomedia. The two resulting channels, Cuatro (Four) and LaSexta (The Sixth), began regular broadcasts on November 7 and December 23, 2005 respectively. Cuatro focused on the production of television reality-shows with a positive vibe (Supernanny, 2006–) and American dramatic series, while LaSexta chose programs with sardonic humor, such as the political talk-show El intermedio (The intermediate, 2006–) and selected young female journalists, with a strong point of view of the news they were dealing with, to host its newscasts. In the following years, new events transformed, once again, the face of Spanish television. From 2008 on, a deep crisis shook the advertising market, while the delayed digital switchover finally took place on April 3, 2010. With the country facing a difficult economic crisis, what started as a process leading to diversification has done just the opposite: Cuatro merged with Mediaset Spain in 2011, and LaSexta was bought by Antena 3 Group in 2012. In Portugal, during the first cohabitation government of Socialist President Mario Soares and Social-Democrat Prime Minister Aníbal António Cavaco Silva, there was a major reform of the Constitution to temper its Marxist elements. These changes and the country’s entry into the European Union in 1986, which improved the economic situation of the country, enabled the Portuguese television system, where cable and satellite had failed to achieve a significant penetration until that moment, to open up. In 1990 the receiver fee was abolished (replaced by a tax on electricity consumption) and two licenses for private television were granted. The publishing group Impresa was awarded the first license through the Sociedade Independente de Comunicação (SIC). The new channel, which began broadcasting on October 6, 1992, was supported by Brazil’s Rede Globo. Brazilian telenovelas and a new style of information, represented in the newscast Jornal da Noite (Night news, 1992–) helped SIC to become the most watched channel in Portugal three years later. The second commercial television license was obtained by Televisão Independente (TVI), owned in part by the Catholic Church. TVI had a shaky history of rating and financial troubles, and it was finally bought by the Spanish media conglomerate PRISA. After a decade on the air and in opposition to their origins (where foreign programming achieved a dominant position in the schedules) private broadcasters SIC and TVI established an alternative programming model based on the Portuguese telenovelas broadcast in the evening hours and prime time, providing a significant stimulus to the Portuguese media industry. RTP tried in this new context to improve its position as a public operator with the creation of two international television channels aimed at the Lusophone cultural sphere, RTP Internacional (which first aired on June 10, 1992) and RTP Africa (which was launched on January 7, 1998). In this period, RTP also attempted to raise its profile with the production of the historical fictions A Ferreirinha (RTP, 2004), about a wine entrepreneur of the nineteenth century, and Pedro e Inês (RTP 1, 2005), devoted to the life of King Pedro I and his wife. In 2004 Radiotelevisão Portuguesa

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and Radiodifusão Portuguesa were merged into a single public company, Rádio e Televisão de Portugal. The first digital broadcast in Portugal began later than expected, in April 2009, and the transition to digital terrestrial television (DTT) concluded in April 2012.

A new world. Transmedia television experiences in Spain and Portugal The television systems of Spain and Portugal have faced big challenges in the last decade. Since 2008 the two countries have suffered in a particularly acute way the consequences of the economic crisis, which led to the intervention of the economic policy and significant budget cuts. Thus, public television has been weakened, and, beset by the crisis of the advertising market, the production of private channels has also been limited. Notwithstanding these difficulties, the audiovisual industries in both countries have tried to adapt to the major international developments, and specifically the convergence with other technologies and the popularization of the Internet and social media. When talking about transmedia and television, the accumulated experience shows at least two big trends. First, the use of new technologies in reality shows, from its simplest forms of participation (voting by mobile phone and the Internet to choose the winner) to the closer involvement using the new conversational tools of social media (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram…). Second, the more complex use by fictional programs, which have sought to cultivate the loyalty of the most active audience by creating parallel content to enhance the experience of traditional TV viewing. But we need to remember that, before the Internet and social media, television kept a dialogue with other media (films, literature, games, etc.), in a more traditional form of transmedia. In the case of television in Spain, this transmedia content offered some interesting examples. Here, we can refer to the published scripts written by successful playwrights such as Jaime de Armiñán (El personaje y su mundo [The character and his world, 1963]) and Ana Diosdado (Anillos de oro, 1995). Another example of traditional transmedia practice is the production of films based on TV programs. The first three examples date back to the sixties and seventies: Escala in Hi-Fi (Scale in Hi-Fi, 1963), La casa de los Martínez (1971), and Avisa a Curro Jiménez (Call Curro Jiménez, 1978). More recently, the television producing company Globomedia, following a diversification strategy, undertook the production of films based on two of its most popular series: ¡No te fallaré! (I won’t let you down!, 2001), based on the teen series Compañeros (Schoolmates, A3, 1998–2002); and Águila Roja: la película (Red eagle: The movie, 2011), based on the adventure series set in the Spanish Golden Age Red eagle (TVE: 2009–). Novelization, another traditional formula for creating transmedia content, has also been explored by Spanish television fiction. A novelization can take different forms, from the direct translation of scripts into literary language to completely new narratives exploring the past (or future) lives of main or supporting characters. The first type was chosen for the young-adult literary series El internado: Laguna Negra (The boarding school: Black lagoon, based on the mystery drama El internado, A3, 2007–10). The second type was chosen for the novels expanding the narrative of the soap-opera Amar en tiempos revueltos (Love in troubled times, TVE, 2005–12), which focused on different characters such as a radio host and a former police officer. In 2010 Amar en tiempos revueltos was also the inspiration for a theatre play about a storyline of the fifth season of the series: the efforts by a theatre company to stage a play critical of Franco’s regime.

Television in Spain and Portugal561 However, Spanish television has more recently begun to use other transmedia narrative techniques related to the use of new technologies. This use has been parallel to the popularization of television fiction programs with complex serial structures, for which the Internet has become a way to complement the narrative universe of the series, give clues for interpretation, and cultivate active spectators. The international success of the American fantasy drama Lost, the program that explored in a more intense way the new possibilities offered by new media, served as an example and guiding light for television producers all around the world. In this regard, the mystery series El Barco (The ship, A3, 2011–13) was created with what is called a high-concept narrative, a very unusual formula in Spanish fiction: after surviving a brutal storm, the crew and students of a training ship discover that almost the full surface of the Earth is covered with water and they are probably the only people alive on the planet. Starring teen idol Mario Casas, the production company Globomedia and television network Antena 3 launched a rich promotional strategy that included both the now-traditional novelizations (four books published between 2011 and 2012), and some pioneering techniques in the use of social media. They created Twitter profiles for the main characters of the series, which interacted with the audience and gave clues to solve some of the mysteries of the program. While many other series produced episodes of short duration exclusively for the Internet — so-called “webisodes” — El barco recognized the new value of social media with a variant called “twittersodes.” Scripted by the show’s writers during the second and third seasons, these episodes were narrated from the Twitter profiles of the characters using dialogue and links to pictures and videos, always closely related to traditional episodes of the series. The webpage of El barco also made available to viewers an online game where they could emulate the adventures of the main characters (an interesting comparison between the transmedia strategies of El barco and the British teen drama Skins can be found in Grandío & Bonaut 2012). El barco was very popular among young viewers, and therefore we can understand the relevance that its production company and network gave to social media. Facebook and Twitter are now a key element in television content as heterogeneous as the morning interview programs and reality shows, as a form of participation and also as an indicator of the popularity of presenters and contestants. However, other forms of transmedia practices are still popular, in this case with a more didactic and educational approach. Certainly, the historical television series are particularly suitable for the development of materials devoted to historical background of the story. In the case of Spain, the series that has used these possibilities most intensively is Isabel, devoted to the reign of the Catholic Monarchs Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon. Starring two attractive young actors, Michelle Jenner and Rodolfo Sancho, Isabel has represented the period in which the foundations of the Spanish state were created, adding elements of political intrigue and romance. Isabel, whose first season was delayed amid the budget problems of TVE, became a notable ratings success after its late release, achieving four and a half million viewers at the end of the first season. With a public older than El barco, both production companies Diagonal TV and TVE opted to develop content that explored the historical context and stressed the love story at the heart of the narrative. Thus, for the second season an interactive online documentary series was produced, where the viewer/user could learn more details about the conquest of Granada, one of the main storylines of the season. In addition, each episode of the series has a section on the official website with written information and video clips about historical events (including interviews with historians) and the production process of the series. Acknowledging

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the new popularity of smartphones and tablets, a web magazine about the series with multimedia and interactive content and a book for sale on iTunes were also produced. Isabel has been an example of how it is possible (even desirable) to explore both traditional and online transmedia practices. Thus, novelizations of both the first and second seasons were also released (the first was written by the show’s creator Javier Olivares), while the National Museum of Costume in Madrid offered an exhibition dedicated to the clothes designed for the series by Pepe Reyes. (The transmedia content related to Isabel can be found on its official website: .) Although with much less intensity, Portugal has also explored the possibilities of transmedia narratives to retain viewers and increase the visibility of programs. The country was the home of the first transmedia series developed in the international context, Diário de Sofia (Sofia’s diary). The series followed the misadventures of a 17-year-old named Sophia in a succession of short episodes. At the end of each episode, Sofia had to make a decision, for which she asked for the collaboration of spectators through mobile messages. Created by writer Nuno Bernardo, the series featured four seasons (and one hundred and fifty episodes) produced in Portugal between 2005 and 2007; it was remade in countries such as the United Kingdom, Brazil, and China. The production company of Diário de Sofia, beActive, has expanded its activities through international co-productions and the publication of books related to their series, maintaining a close relationship with RTP for the production of interactive fiction aimed at young viewers. Diário de Sofia was followed by a second program, T2 para 3 (RTP, 2008). But these experiences did not have much continuity. In an interview, Nuno Bernardo considered this essential to understanding the international work developed by beActive: a way to survive in a very limited marketplace (Bernardo 2011 and Möller 2012). As expected, social media has become a key element for the promotion of programs, especially reality series and talent shows such as A Voz de Portugal (The voice of Portugal, RTP, 2011–12) and Feitos ao Bife (RTP, 2013–). In the realm of fiction, telenovelas have remained very popular, and new technologies have only played a marginal role for them. For drama series in primetime, the recent innovative bets by RTP, such as the historical series Os Filhos do Rock (Sons of rock, RTP, 2013) and Mulheres de Abril (Women of April, RTP, 2014), or the mockumentary series Odisseia (RTP, 2013), have made use of social media with Twitter and Facebook profiles, but no specific transmedia content was produced for any of them, a sign that Portugal is still reluctant to embrace the new possibilities opened by new media.

From the radio script to the sound script An evolving/endangered species in Spain and Portugal Virginia Guarinos The profession of writing scripts for the radio has never been a unique or preferred role, as occurred with writing for television or cinema. Writing for the radio diverged along two lines; either one was a journalist, in charge of writing up events for news bulletins, reports, and documentaries, or one was a creative writer, creating original fiction or adapting preexisting literature for the radio. This supposes recognizing in the radio script writer a strong link which ties him or her more directly to fiction. Thus, when you talk about a radio scriptwriter you are also talking about a writer of fiction. From the beginnings of radio both journalists and scriptwriters assumed the role of creating and adapting fiction for the airwaves. This was at a time when the non-existence of specialized studies complicated the appearance of the figure of radio fiction writer as a profession. Nevertheless, as in any other trade, great radio scriptwriters began to emerge: they created original novels (soap operas), stories, and dramas for radio or they adapted stories, novels, and plays from world literature. This is not a phenomenon that occurred exclusively on Spanish or Portuguese radio, but something that happened worldwide across all of the airwaves. The appearance of university studies in audiovisual communication in the 1970s on the Iberian Peninsula did not solve the problem of professionalization of the radio scriptwriter, but, on the contrary, it coincided with a moment in the evolution of the language used in radio, where fiction saw a reduction in programing time and within a new business model where the training of fictional writers for radio was not deemed “useful” simply because it was no longer necessary. This was not the only moment of change. Fiction on conventional radio suffered an important transformation in the last three decades of the twentieth century. After the golden age of radio fiction ended, with its soap operas, plays, and short stories, new formats began to appear, where fictional programming did not constitute entire shows in themselves (with few exceptions; Radio 3, of Radio Nacional de España [RNE, Spain’s public broadcaster] has always included fiction as part of their programming, for example) but rather began to exist as additions within larger programing formats in which fictional characters, short dramatizations, or micro-stories were occasionally included (Guarinos 1999). The atomization of radio audiences, the general tendency towards extreme realism in audiovisual media, the presence — to the point of saturation — of fiction on television, all begin to compete with radio and fiction on the radio, almost precipitating its demise. Apart from these exogenous factors, and as a sign of the times, radio is also affected by the culture of fragmentation in which the twenty-first century is immersed, and of course, it is also affected by the Web 2.0, which has brought with it the democratization of digital technology. The evolution of radio in Portugal and Spain (Balsebre 2001) has traveled along practically parallel paths. Perhaps Portuguese radio is a few years behind Spanish radio in the function of the interests of its audience, which made it so that the “monumental” fiction of serialized stories arrived a bit later in Portugal (although not by much). The fact that radio got to Portugal slightly doi 10.1075/chlel.29.45gua © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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later also contributed to a later disappearance of the formats and classic genres known in the 1950s and 1960s, where the soap opera — radionovela — was the star program on many stations. Despite the time difference in the disappearance of these great original works adapted for the radio in Portugal with respect to Spain, the fiction on offer in both countries on conventional radio today is quite disparate. In Spain, RNE, as a public radio broadcaster, has opted to maintain and fulfil its function of service and to try to please the greatest part of the population (as potential audience). It currently represents one of the scarce remaining providers of quality professional radio fiction on the Spanish airwaves, but the absence of original fictional scripts for radio is a fact that can be observed in the programming. The recent titles from 2013–14 are adaptations of historical classics from world literature (from Shakespeare to Stevenson’s Treasure island), not new stories created specifically for the radio. The change in policy towards adaptation, as opposed to original writing, is even more evident when you consider that at the same time that pre-existing literary works are being adapted, so are films which are also interpreted, not by the non-existent troupes of actors employed by the station, as would have occurred during the golden age of radio, but rather by famous actors from film and television, very well known in the country, in a clear attempt to make the broadcast profitable, by regaining an audience for fiction. Working with prestigious contemporary playwrights, such as Juan Mayorga, Jose Sanchis Sinisterra, and Alfredo Sanzol, both Psycho (Hitchcock, 1960) and The Exorcist (Friedkin 1973; see and ) have been adapted for radio. But what has happened to original scripts written specifically for radio? In 2005, Emma Rodero titled one of her works Regaining creativity in radio: Reasons for promoting radio fiction, referring to the crisis on Spanish radio, but in reality applicable internationally, anywhere that radio “manifests a stasis in content and sound format” (2005, 134). This situation continues today, provoking an incompatibility between a new society and a new language in this society which is not reflected in the media in general and even less so on the radio (Faus 2001). Televised fiction has evolved but this has not been the case with radio, despite numerous attempts at renewal and experimentation, such as Federico Volpini’s work on Radio 3 of RNE. The sound evolution has occurred (and is occurring) but not strictly by way of the radio. Indeed, there has been an evolution in audio in general, but it has occurred on the internet, in online radio and in audioblogs in the form of podcasts (Ortiz Sobrino 2013). In Portugal the situation is not any better than it is in Spain. Within the circles of researchers and radio lovers alike, when a conference on radio was announced in Spain, the radio host Jorge Guimarães echoed it on his blog by lamenting the lost panorama of fiction on Portuguese radio in the following words: “In Portugal there are few who remember evenings spent by the radio listening to radio soaps or dramas adapted for radio. The tradition of theatre on the radio was lost some time ago. There are a few initiatives here and there but it’s true that they don’t write scripts (they haven’t for a long time) exclusively for the radio anymore” (). In Portugal, traditional radio is not the place to find advances in creative sonorous fictional language either. Internet radio is a phenomenon there too, fundamentally originating with journalists who upload podcasts of their own reports and radio documentaries to blogs or audioblogs. As stated before, the beginnings of radio in Portugal run along parallel lines to those of Spain. In Spain, radio “officially” began in 1923, and Portuguese radio managed to transmit

From the radio script to the sound script565 regular broadcasts slightly later: beginning and developing until there were approximately 30 radio stations from 1924 to 1974, within the environment of conventional radio, with a powerful national broadcaster, the EN (Emissora Nacional de Radiodifusão), which began regular transmissions in 1935. In Portugal, as in Spain, the Catholic church saw radio as an important means of communication and as its resonant vehicle it used Rádio Renascença (Spain’s Catholic station is la COPE radio). Rádio Renascença began broadcasting in 1937, although its official inauguration was in 1938, six years after it launched a magazine by the same name. Today Rádio Renascença is still a favorite among Portuguese listeners. It has been a point of reference in Portugal, and even collaborated actively in the management of Rádio e Televisão Portuguesa (RTP, Portugal’s state-owned radio and television) in 1955. Additionally, in 1974 when the nationalization of the media took place, Rádio Renascença managed to continue as the only independent broadcaster. Always skilfully keeping up to date, it was one of the first to broadcast on the FM dial, and it opened different channels to reach younger audiences. It also adapted well to the internet age, to the point where today it is the leading media outlet in Portugal; but it also played an historic role on the night of April 24, 1974, when the “Carnation Revolution” began and the country embarked on its peaceful transition from Salazar’s dictatorship to the democratic state that it is today (Ribeiro 2002). Portugal, like Spain, experienced the break up of more emotionally distant and respected radio broadcasts a decade later. Renewal in the field trended towards a more intimate style of radio in the 1970s, which later evolved into free radio and pirate radio, but ended the century with programming based on information, entertainment, sports, and music. This moment in the evolution of radio, marked by the last quarter of the century, is what lead to the rupture and disappearance of fiction on Portuguese radio. Because radio in Portugal was a few years behind that in Spain, it took a little longer for this to happen; indeed the national broadcaster maintained fiction programming for adults as well as children up until the 1980s and 1990s. Historically, both Portugal and Spain opted for a mixed format that included information and entertainment, and from which a golden age of fiction emerged in the 1950s, where serialized stories (soap operas), short stories, and radio theatre developed the same narrative formulas in the two countries. The changes in the system of production in the 1960s, which were more agile, closer to the man on the street, took the programs from inside the studios with live audiences to the streets with the general public, making the contents and the formats of the programs more varied. Even so, Portuguese radio continued to broadcast fiction until the 1980s, even though it was more expensive and labor intensive, and already badly hit by news and music radio and by television. RNE and Cadena SER provided proliferative references for fiction on the radio, the same as EN and Ràdio Renascença on the Portuguese side. As a matter of fact, in 1958 Matos Maia, the award winning professional playwright, adapted Orson Welles’s The war of the worlds (excerpts can be read and heard here: ). Maia had a long professional trajectory and a versatile profile, working on musical programs, entertainment shows, and specialized magazines. Among his adaptations, which he wrote and directed, are two series based on the literary works of two important writers in contemporary Portuguese letters: Camilo Castelo Branco’s A Queda de um Anjo (The fall of an angel) and Aquilino Ribeiro’s Quando os Lobos Uivam (When the wolves howl). In 1968, Matos Maia was awarded the Ondas prize from Cadena SER in Spain. He also received other prizes, including the Prémio da Sociedade Portuguesa de Autores (Portuguese Author’s Society Prize) in 1991, for his creation of radio theatre in addition

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to his adaptations of other works by renowned Portuguese authors such as A Cidade e a Serra (The city and the mountains) by Eça de Queirós; A Escola do Paraíso (School of paradise) by José Rodrigues Miguéis; Seara de Vento (Harvest of wind) by Manuel da Fonseca or Mau Tempo no Canal, (Stormy isles; an Azorean tale) by Vitorio Nemésio. The great radio playwright created original plays for the radio and adapted literature for fiction programs, as well as working with a team of professionals on entertainment programs, including work on a third modality, common to Portuguese radio even today, which incorporates sessions of fiction within programming whose content is more entertainment and variety show-based. For example, the serialized story Zequinha e Lélé by Anibal Nazaré and Nelson de Barros was integrated into the Portuguese radio variety show Companheiros da Alegria (1947, Emisora Nacional) which was broadcast in front of a live audience, sometimes in the studio and sometimes in cinemas and theatres. The parallel paths of fiction on the radio in Portugal and Spain converge to the point where stations in both countries ended up broadcasting the same soap opera Simply Maria; Simplemente María, in Spain on Cadena SER 1971–74 and Simplesmente Maria, in Portugal on Rádio Renascença, from March 1973 until April 1974. The story was adapted to the places and the peoples of the countries. In Portugal a young illiterate woman, one of eight children, arrives in Lisbon from her village, to work as a servant and send money home to her family. She finds love with a boy from a good family, with whom she initiates a difficult romance because of the social inequality. This radio soap, originally from Argentina, was also successful in Spain, although perhaps less so than in Portugal, where the series was surrounded with so much mystery that the actors who played the roles were not revealed. Teófilo Martinez was the director and protagonist of the Spanish version, which was broadcast for three years and a total of 501 episodes. It was broadcast daily and lasted for an hour. In the Spanish version of the story the girl came from Santander to Madrid. The first episodes were adapted by Guillermo Sautier Casaseca himself, the radio dramatist of Spanish fiction par excellence, along with Rafael Baron and Antonio Sauquillo. In Portugal as in Spain, some scriptwriters were multi-purpose writers while others specialized in fiction. And radio and its contents evolved from the large melodramatic productions to the short humor formats in which they have become atomized today. The days when radio stations had troupes of actors are gone. To give an example, on Radio Madrid, in the 1950s there were sixty professionals who made eight radio soaps a day. The cornering of the market and of part of the audience by televised fiction is evidenced in the analysis of radio scripts. One can note a decline in the quality of the broadcasts, even in the way that they are presented, which denotes a lack of time and effort dedicated to them, typical of a change in the system of production. The classic scripts on Portuguese radio from the 1950s to the 1960s are centered on radio novels (soap operas) and theatre, while the presence of the short story is less frequent (Relatos [Short stories], in the 1960s) except for those dedicated to children’s fiction (Media hora de recreo [Half an hour of playtime] between the 1960s and the 1970s or Un cuento radiofónico [A radio story] in the 1970s). In the historic archives of the webpage of the Portuguese national radio there are hundreds of scripts available for download in PDF for reading or analysis (). Serialized stories constituted their own spaces under the title of the radio soap opera, while radio theatre programs were broadcast under various titles such as Noche de teatro (Theatre night) — these were pieces broadcast with continuity from the 1960s up to the beginning of the 1990s, when production became more sporadic. Miniteatro, Teatro de comedias, Teatros de todos los tiempos, and Teatro de nuestros días were all broadcast in the 1960s and the 1970s.

From the radio script to the sound script567 One can see that there was a variety of programs, including specialized programs, classic theatre, contemporary comedy, adapted scripts and original scripts, and works of world literature and national literature. The scripts from the 1950s and 1960s are extensive, detailed, with narrators and a great variety of characters. They are meticulous in their use of music and sound effects to indicate pauses, passages between sequences, jumps in time, intensification in the expressivity of the moment, etc. The dialogues and the parleys help to advance the story and to develop the characters. In the scripts of the 1980s, and in the very rare fictional pieces in Portugal in the 1990s, such references begin to disappear and everything is reduced to dialogue, in a literal sense, between two characters, with no use of resources or additional sound effects other than the spoken word. Production in the service of fiction diminishes until it becomes dramatized reading and nothing more. The annotations on the scripts themselves about the author, the adaptation, direction, and production are missing, and with the passing of time one can observe how they forget to reflect this information at all in the archives, in contrast to the attention that these details of production received in the golden age. Today on RTP, Antena 1, theatre forms part of the content on informative and cultural programming, similar to the way the novel forms part of the content on literature programs, but fiction specific to the radio does not exist either as original scripts or as adaptations of other material. On Spanish radio, as mentioned before at the beginning of this chapter, occasionally there are special rebroadcasts. This was the case of the rebroadcast in the 1990s on Cadena Dial of the classic La saga de los Porretas (The Porretas’ saga). The program was a popular ten-minute, light comedy originally produced on Cadena SER (parent company of Cadena Dial). It lasted from 1972 to 1984, with over two thousand episodes. It was written by Eduardo Vázquez, creator of some of the most emblematic serial radio shows in Spain during the 1940s, specifically Matilde, Perico y Periquín. Only RNE maintains the policy initiated in the last fifteen years of the twentieth century of promoting prestigious authors, more than professional radio playwrights. “We want to incorporate prestigious writers on the radio,” said Juan José Borrego, programming director of RNE, and he added that “Live programming has been overrated, but I believe that we have to take advantage of all of the tools radio has to offer. After Fernan Gómez’s series ends, it will be followed by a series by Francisco Nieva, Las Brujas de Madrid (The witches of Madrid) and afterwards in the second trimester, there will be another by Manueal Gutiérrez Aragón. Simultaneously, we are broadcasting a weekly show called Narraciones (Stories). There is also a series dedicated to stories from the oral tradition with Lola Salvador. We also have plans for a horror series called Laura by Juan José Plans, and later on we’ll have a short story by Lourdes Ortiz” (). At the start of the twenty-first century in Spain there is a continued effort to regain a place on the radio, especially for theatre, although not so much for the soap opera. In 2014 in the Basque Country, they continued to hold the Pérez Uralde Radio Theatre Contest, and in Galicia they still award the prize from the Diario Cultural da Radio Galega, apart from the many years of the classic Margarita Xirgu Contest on Radio Exterior de España, whose last winner was a Chilean cultural journalist, José Henríquez, now living in Spain. He is not a professional fictional radio scriptwriter, because these no longer exist, in spite of the continuous publication of manuals on the construction and writing of radio scripts, the most recent being by Rodero and Xoengas (2010). The diminishing interest in radio fiction in Europe, due to the generation of new formats and media, contrasts with the interest and resurgence that is occurring in Latin America, with

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Mexico being the most thriving example, with contests for young writers and daily broadcasts of recuperated fiction programs (for example on Radio Cuenca, see: ). This Latin American phenomenon is responsible for the paradox where you can find a lot of radio fiction in Portuguese, but not from Portugal; it is all Brazilian. The appearance of new fictional and para-fictional radio genres, which were shorter and more articulated, that began to appear at the end of the last century (Guarinos 1977) evidences audiences’ evolving tastes, but the era of the internet 2.0 in the twenty-first century has also brought with it the emergence of programs by non-professionals, or “prosumers”; people who are users and creators at the same time, who inundate the web, blogs, and online repositories outside of the official podcasts of the radio stations. This phenomenon offers audiences the ability to listen à la carte, to the content they want to hear as well as when they want to listen. The supply of audio fiction outside of the radio waves has increased its presence but it has also diminished its quality, in that prosumers produce with vocation but in many cases without training or concrete objectives other than satisfying their own personal desires to make audio fiction. The variety on offer goes from simple readings aloud of classical world literature to audiobooks, dramatized readings with one or more voices, all the way to radio soap operas or radio theatre performed by by amateur theatre groups or simply fans of the radio. The use of radiophonic resources, such as sound effects, silences, and music in its diverse functions, is reduced to the bare minimum along with the sound quality, narrative, and dramatic adaptation, despite the ample availability on the internet of tutorials on how to make podcasts. The figure of the script writer becomes essential and at the same time plays the role of the host, director, and producer of the sound cuts. Comparatively, Spanish podcasts are numerous and varied, in fiction as well as in documentaries and reports (Guarinos 1999), while the Portuguese podcasts present a clear tendency towards broadcast professionals from stations centred on information. There is also a significant presence of fictional programming for children. The podcasting world on Portuguese radio has undergone a lot of development since approximately 2006 in every dimension, from educational podcasts to news and information, with lots of sports and music programming too, apart from the official podcasts of the various radio stations; within this development, logically there is also fiction programming. One can hear fiction for children in the format of short stories, or satire in the form of fictionalized current events on Caderneta de Cromos. These consist of simple radio texts, lasting eight to ten minutes, that coincide but do not have a structural narrative articulation. They have a single narrator, are produced live, have few characters, are almost without dialogue, and they sometimes have a serialized plot — sometimes there are episodes. However, at the least they have a quality professional sound technique. There are other examples of simple fiction, such as the Portuguese podcast Leitura em dia, which consists of literary texts being read aloud. These are not texts written or designed for the radio, but at the end of the day, they represent fictional content or theatre in high quality cultural programming. This occurs not only in Portugal but in the Portuguese language, where one can find serialized theatre production, although the most abundant genre is short stories, which are based on dialogues without special effects, performed live with very little production, and with an almost unanimous preference for a tone that parodies the podcasts coming from professional radio stations, since the presence of amateur podcasters is almost testimonial. The result

From the radio script to the sound script569 in Portugal regarding fiction is that it can be found on various media and with different kinds of reception, not exclusive to listening to either conventional radio or to new digital means. With this kind of review, one can reach the conclusion that the figure of the professional radio script writer as an exclusive model has disappeared — with the exception of well-known names like Federido Volpini who, with his work on RNE and concretely on Radio 3, is an innovator and experimenter with the newest radio fiction — or is disappearing or evolving. Today there are fiction writers, designers of multipurpose dramaturgy, who are capable of developing dramatic stories and adapting them to the linguistic systems of diverse media; from narrative literature itself to theatre and dramaturgy for television or the cinema. Various Spanish names, such as Antonio Onetti or Francisco Ortuño, corroborate this. However, the feedback seen between television series, cinema, and radio (Santos 2004) in South American countries (we have the example of Simplemente Maria in Mexico) is not reproduced in Europe, where radio and audio fiction in all of their new dimensions on the internet, are orphans. The progressive disappearance of specialized professional and specific fictional programming is another missing link representing the loss of a whole generation of radio listeners, a phenomenon that is not exclusive to the Iberian Peninsula but that affects Europe and the United States as well. Menese (2011) affirms that at this moment a generation of young people is not even listening to the news or music on the radio (2011) and calls for a new marketing strategy to reach young people from the ages 8 to 17, so that future generations of listeners can be regained. Yet the outlook is grim, since the business model of radio today does not favor the creation of loyalty among young people willing to become addicted to listening to the radio instead of their iPods. Perhaps a possible strategy for reaching the younger generations would be the immersion of radio fiction within recent trans-media experiences, new stories that would be interwoven and spread across various types of media, one of which would be the radio. The radio program Morning glory, which can be accessed from Canal Cuatro’s (Channel Four) webpage is in itself fictional as it corresponds to the program where one of the characters of the television series (Cita a ciegas [Blind date], also on Canal Cuatro) works. New paths for professional audio fiction are being initiated which accompany the sound products generated by amateurs on the internet, with a massive but selective audience reach, with an audio fiction not only for connoisseurs as a cultural act, but as a product for mass consumption.

Transformations of the graphic novel in Spain The cases of Max and Miguelanxo Prado Ana Merino Introduction The comic is a cultural form that has proven capable of representing the mass modernity of the twentieth century. It belongs to the context of industrial culture, and the construction of narratives that relate to that reality, although its initial characteristics (ephemeral media, mass projection, and graphic themes often designed for a juvenile or minimally educated audience) means that it had an ambiguous relationship with the discourses of literary culture. In the Spanish case, the flowering and consolidation of a cartoon culture aimed at children coincided with the Spain of Franco. The wide range of characters and scenes that this newspaper kiosk genre offered to children and to young people marked various generations. Many adolescents included characters from these cartoons, such as the Jabato, the Guerrero del Antifaz (The masked warrior), or Roberto Alcázar and Pedrin in their roleplaying adventure games. There was also another type of humorous story, in which depictions of social reality became subtle critiques of the system. The most surprising characters and adventures were often able to escape censorship because of their location in the space of children’s entertainment. We could list here the journalist Tribulete, always unsuccessfully searching for a scoop; Don Pío, a good-natured clerk at the mercy of his cruel boss; Carpanta, who goes hungry and lives under a bridge in a Spain in which the authorities were vehement in their denials of the realities of poverty; Petra, the perennial slave who suffers the abuses of the despotic Doña Patro, reflecting thereby the experience of poor immigrants to the great cities. Children and adults who read these comics could see their own bitterness reflected in the lives of characters that seemed always destined to fail. However, as Antonio Altarriba explains in La España del Tebeo (The Spain of the comic book, 2001) the comic form in some ways fell with the dictatorship itself. With the ideological and social changes that the transition brought, a new cultural orientation towards various forms of creative and aesthetic expression emerged. The cultural system had changed, and new locations of power, such as television, were consolidated within a culture of mass entertainment. In this context of a free society, a new intellectual approach to mass culture began to develop. During the Francoist era cartoons were associated with children’s media. The creators of these cartoons were understood as almost clown figures, and despite their immense talents, relegated to the margins of the entertainment industry. In the new democratic state, with fewer ideological and aesthetic restrictions, it was very important for artists to generate a new space, charged with daring expressive discourses. What was the nature of this change within the cartoon? For many young cartoonists, democracy meant contact with foreign graphic materials. With the new open market these products began to be widely distributed and influenced and stimulated the perspectives of those who were creating a new Graphics world. The children’s cartoon industry was in crisis but not the creative impulse of the young artists in Spain who were beginning to create a new genre — comics for adults. Democracy brought graphic experimentation and the search for new styles that doi 10.1075/chlel.29.46mer © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Transformations of the graphic novel in Spain571 would enter into dialogue with European and American cultures. This was a social opening in which the cultural and countercultural expressive models of other countries were adopted and imitated. One can even find in the critical discourse of this time interesting essays that reflect upon the aesthetic-narrative changes that began to appear at the end of the dictatorship. The magazine Estudios de Información (Information studies), for example, edited by the Secretaria General y Técnica del Ministerio de Información y Turismo dedicated its double volume (19–20) of July-December 1971 to the comic strip. A large number of the articles were dedicated to the children’s comic, but others were based on the adult forms of the genre. Carlo Frabetti (1970), in his article entitled “La industria de la incultura y los medios de incomunicación” (The industry of non-culture and non-communication), had modulated his acerbic critique of mass culture with the potentially positive force of what he termed the revolutionary space within this culture, highlighting the “Supermachos” cartoons of the Mexican cartoonist, Rius. He also argued that the “underground” comics, with their radical discourse, should be studied as a separate case. Included in the same volume was an article by Luis Vigil (1970) entitled “El cómic underground en los Estados Unidos” (The underground comic in the United States), which sought to defend the idea of a comic completely orientated towards an adult audience. Aurelio Sahagún (1970), in his article “El cómic de la contracultura” (The countercultural comic) also reflected on the auteur and underground comic and reflected on their relationship with North American culture. The comic creator Max, pen name for Frances Capdevila i Gisbert (Barcelona, 1956) and Miguelanxo Prado (A Coruña, 1958), who came of age during the transition and its cultural consequences, are two of the authors who best represent the transition from the comic, orientated toward children, to the more adult “graphic novel.” In this essay I will analyze the different ways in which these two internationally acclaimed authors set about creating graphic novels that are paradigmatic works within the history of the Spanish comic. Miguelanxo, a self-trained artist and very removed from the mainstream of artistic production, published in 1992 his Trazo de Tiza (Streak of chalk), whereas Max, a classic reference for the Spanish underground scene, published in 1997 his El prolongado sueño de Sr. T (The Extraordinary dream of Mr. D).1 Both graphic novels constitute a new way of constructing comics and narrating in a sequential way very complex plots. The characters in these works are multidimensional, as opposed to the one-dimensional heroes and villains of the traditional comic. Both works were given important international awards, with Prado winning the Alph Art of Angouleme for his Trazo de tiza and Max winning the American Ignatz for his El prolongado sueño del Sr.T. Period of youthful formation and transition Max’s childhood was marked by the reading of the cartoons of Bruguera and TBO, and also by animated television programs. At the age of 16 he met Nazario, the Farriol brothers, and Mariscal, creators of the self-edited El Rollo Enmascarado (The masked stuff), which was to be the first 1.

This work was translated to English as The Extended Dream of Mr. D, so as to avoid confusion with the character “Mr. T” of The A-Team television series, I will refer to the original Spanish title, and the character Cristobal T. throughout this text. Similarly, I will refer to the work Trazo de tiza, which was translated as Streak of chalk, by its Spanish title.

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Spanish semi-underground comic to follow the American counter-cultural model. It was then that he discovered the American underground scene, the work of Crumb and Shelton, and the cartoons of Zap! Comix, in which he found the most provocative aspects of counterculture — a liberal attitude combined with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He studied Fine Art but was more interested in comics than in painting. In cartoons he could see the possibility of telling stories that would meet a much larger audience, and with the added advantage that they “carecían de la solemnidad del arte con mayúsculas” (lacked the solemnity of art with a capital A) (qtd in the interview “Max: La madurez expresiva,” Leer, July–August 2000, 50). In the faculty of Fine Arts he met the Majorcan illustrator Pere Joan, and with him edited the 1977 fanzine Muérdago (Mistletoe). In 1979 he was one of the founding members of the El Víbora (The Viper) magazine, and in its pages developed his character Gustavo, a radical anarchist and ecologist that he had invented for Muérdago. Max defines the era of Gustavo as that of his first steps in a profesional and stable career. His work methods, however, remained spontaneous and direct. This same spontaneity continues in the following stage of his career, in which the character Peter Pank (who first appears in 1983) predominates, although at this stage Max is already an author with a self-assured and original voice. Peter Pank represents an archetypical member of the “urban tribes” that marked Spanish youth culture in the 1980s. The popularity of this character was to provide economic stability for its author. The production of this parodic homage to Walt Disney’s Peter Pan was to run in parallel with works of a greater narrative profundity, such as La muerte húmeda (Damp death, 1986), El carnaval de los ciervos (Carnival of deer, 1984), El beso secreto (The secret kiss, 1987), or his recounting of the meeting between Walt Disney and H. P. Lovecraft (1985). In his works, Max combined the influences of creators such as Robert Crumb (above all in his first works), Hergé, Chaland, or Spanish classics such as Coll, Urda, Opisso, Vázquez, Figueras, Ibáñez, or Cifré. Literature is another fundamental influence, and here we can identify elements from writers such as Edgar A. Poe, Franz Kafka, Jorge Luis Borges, Dylan Thomas, Lewis Carroll, H. P. Lovecraft, and Robert Graves, who have left direct or indirect marks on his work. The themes and narrative techniques of Greek and Celtic myth are also important sources, as well as Taoist poetry and philosophy. The situation of Miguelanxo Prado is very different. Although he read cartoons during his infancy, like any other child, he did not develop a very profound relationship with the characters. Prado really discovered comics when he was around twenty years of age and a student of architecture. Miguelanxo Prado grew up drawing and reading. His father, an amateur painter with a large library, often brought him to museums. As a child, Prado liked to invent stories and tell them to his friends. However, it was not until he was in his fourth year as an architecture student that he recognized his own talent for illustration and abandoned his studies. He discovered comics through a Belgian friend who showed him the work of Moebius, Enki Bilal, and Hugo Pratt. In Miguelanxo Prado we can see a development that follows the tradition of European graphical aesthetics. Moebius (also known as Jean Giraud) is French, Enki Bilal, though born in Belgrade, lived from a young age in France, and Hugo Pratt was Italian. In the comic, Prado could mix his two great passions, painting and writing. Deciding to plunge directly into this world, he moved to Barcelona, where he established links with the editor Joseph Toutain. It was Toutain who would publish Mar de tinieblas (Dark sea) in the Creepy magazine. Prado also created two science fiction series that Toutain would publish, Fragmentos de la Enciclopedia Délfica (Fragments of a delphic encyclopedia) (1983) and Stratos (1984). These works, despite their futurist settings, reflected an authorial voice that was socially committed and possesed of a profound critical spirit, an aspect that would be consolidated with the short tales of Crónicas incongruentes (Incongruent

Transformations of the graphic novel in Spain573 chronicles, 1990) and Quotidianía Delirante (Delirious daily-life, I-1988, II-1990, III-1997). Many of these stories appeared throughout the second half of the eighties in the humorous magazine, El Jueves (Thursday). These short pieces were impregnated with a delicate and ironic humor in which numerous unfortunate characters found themselves lost in a reality of absurd and kafkaesque situations. Both authors share a solid trajectory characterized by a prolific production of acclaimed works that show both narrative and graphic talent in stories of shorter or longer duration. Max invented iconic characters such as Gustavo or Peter Pank, whose adventures were serialized in the pages of El Víbora. Prado, for his part, employed a concentrated and hard-hitting humor, manifest in the short tales that appeared in El Jueves and other publications. Curiously, the work of both men in the 1990s shows a shared tendency to more obviously literary and intellectually high-brow concerns. The graphic novel and its importance in Spain Max, in an interview for Leer (Reading) magazine, explained that in his opinion the graphic novel in Spain was not in itself a genre, but more so a format which allowed for the tackling of works with a certain thematic ambition. He recognized that his graphic novel, El sueño prolongado del Señor T, had come about under the direct influence of Art Spiegelman’s Maus, and as result of years of creative crisis. The idea that comics could become graphic books with complex stories was, for Max, thanks simply to the new format that allowed for new expressive possibilities. The reader was used to comic strips and magazines, and to the interminable serialized adventures of their favorite characters, but not to the concept of a comic of aesthetic and narrative density contained in a single volume with a marked beginning and end. It would be unjust in this regard not to signal the importance of the American artist, Will Eisner, known for his character Spirit, and the foundation of the graphic novel as a genre. In his lectures as a teacher Eisner defended the concept of “sequential art” as a way of defining the comic, and he himself created in 1978 what many people consider to be the first graphic novel, A contract with God, which brought together four short graphic tales about the lives of immigrants to New York in the 1930s. It is also important to point out the interest in comics of many important writers. This connection was alluded to in Luis Gasca’s 1966 study, Tebeo y cultura de masas (The comic strip and mass culture), in which the section entitled “Una literatura dibujada” (A painted literature) dealt with the influence of the comic genre on American writers. According to Gasca, “Faulkner’s The Hamlet seems to be faithfully modeled on Dogpatch, the town in which Mom and Pop Yokum live in the company of their son, Li’l Abner” (1966, 73). Gasca here is referring to the comic of Al Capp which fascinated Faulkner and Steinbeck. However, it is important to point out that when Max alluded to his debt to the graphic novel of testimony, Maus, he was marking the importance of the work that is paradigmatic in the comic’s rise to canonical respectability. Art Spiegelman, who had developed his career in the American underground, was the creator of this piece, which related the testimony of his father, a survivor of the Nazi extermination camps. Initially Maus was published in serial form in the avant-garde American magazine, RAW, which Spiegelman himself edited between 1980 and 1991, but it later appeared, compiled and edited into two volumes, in 1986 and in 1991. Maus won the Pulitzer Prize in 1992, becoming the first non-syndicated comic to receive the award. Maus marks a before and

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after point in the comic editorial industry. Publishing houses began to become interested in this type of graphic production that could be adapted to book format and therefore share space on bookshelves in libraries and bookshops. This move represented an interesting transition from the underground and counter-cultural comic, born from the subversive cultural production of 1960s America, a world that had a profound effect on the Spain of the 1970s and 1980s, to the newer, more literary comic. The 1990s in Spain continued to be indebted to the voice of the American underground, although artists were also influenced by the European school, and the French/Belgian styles. There was also an interest in the American alternative comics for adults of the 1980s, which although originally published in serial format, were often compiled as pseudo graphic novels. In this context it would be interesting to carry out an investigation of the Portuguese sphere, which was also influenced by the alternative American scene of the 1980s, an influence that was consolidated in the 90s with the creation of schools and followers. João Paulo Cotrim, in his article “Tempestad y vasos de agua. Panorama de la historieta y el humor gráfico en Portugal en 2001” explains how the autochthonous political humor of the comic strip continues while at the same time new spaces are opening for young people in the alternative comic scene in which short graphic tales of intense literary quality are being produced. At the end of the 1990s, the new publishing house, Edições Polvo, appeared, offering young artists a space in which to publish their graphic novels. Here the work of Filipe Abranches, Pedro Nora (who with David Soares would create “Mr. Burroughs”), João Fazenda, Maria Isabel Carvalho, and Rui Ricardo (whose collaborations with the Angolan Paulo Patrício are especially noteworthy) would stand out. Perhaps this clearly mercantile aspect of the mixed genre of the graphic novel led Max to define it more as a format than a genre. The graphic novel with its book format is designed for literary consumers, and is marked by narrative elements that are clearly distinct from serial comics with their often one-dimensional characters. Both Max’s graphic novel, El prolongado sueño del Sr.T, and Miguelanxo Prado’s Trazo de tiza, first appeared in magazines. Max’s in El Víbora in 1997 and Miguelanxo Prado in Cimoc in 1992 and 1993. But this is a merely logistical detail that functions in accordance with a readership accustomed to reading fragmented adventures in the mode of the feuilleton (this was the case even with Maus). What is clear is that these works, constucted with a view to narrative finality, demand a cultured adult reader, who should be able to read various levels of meaning within the graphic codes, and also understand the literary and philosophical discourses that are part of the story. Max and Prado investigated these multiple possibilities in large-scale works that demanded a careful reading. In this way they consolidated in Spain the genre that has made the comic part of the canon and the format most likely to preserve its memory.

Literary traces in Trazo de tiza Trazo de tiza demonstrates that Miguelanxo Prado is not only a master of literary narrative, but also that he inherits the tradition in which color plays a decisive part in the discursive contruction of the story. Color allows for a graphic texture that gives a greater rhythmic profundity to the narrative sequence. The work is divided into seven chapters, with three annexes, and allows for parallel readings from its initial pages. In the first page four frames without words show a

Transformations of the graphic novel in Spain575 small boat battered by waves and storm. In the following pages we are presented with an aerial view of a calm sea in which a small sail boat approaches a small island with a long pier. The name of the author, title, and publishing house (Norma) are placed on the upper right-hand corner, enframed so as not to break the intense birds-eye perspective of the illustration. On the following page white letters on a black background spell out two citations, one from S. S. Van Dine, the other from Borges, which mark the literary antecedents of the work and also its multi-perspectivity. The citation from Dine reflects this interest in various viewpoints: “We have seen and heard the same thing, but we interpret the facts in different ways” (Prado 2003, 6). Miguelanxo Prado is interested in interpretation, in the ways we see and understand reality. His characters interpret different things as having vital importance for their existence. Ana, the main character of the graphic novel, has traveled to the island in search of the real trace of a sign that she interpreted a year before. She writes in her diary: “me siento implicada desde que, hace un año, quise creer que el mensaje por azar leí en el muro iba, inverosímilmente, dirigido a mí” (2003, 36; I feel involved since, one year ago, I wanted to believe that the message I read by chance in the wall was, improbably, directed at me). Already, in a conversation with Raul, the other main character, Ana had insinuated the curious relationship she had established with this island in which she finds herself making many interpretations of the objects around her: “Yo he de reconocer que esta isla me predispone a creer en cosas en las que nunca había creído. En presagios, por ejemplo. / Se diría que todo aquí, tras una apariencia real encubre una esencia extraña, como inmaterial, que nosotros, ajenos a la isla, no acercamos a entender. Apenas alcanzamos a intuirla, a presentirla” (2003, 33).2 In one of the appendices to the work, titled “anotación final” (final note), Prado attempts to connect with the readers and their interpretations, reminding us that “knowledge and analysis of facts are always fragmentary and speculative. This means that the same chain of occurences can be explained in more than one way” (2003, 87). The author also confesses that he was tempted to include two epilogues in his work to help the reader to come to an interpretation that would not be limited to Raul’s perspective, according to which the island was simply a weird place and everything is rationalized without giving credence to the possibility that there might be other, parallel temporal dimensions that play on the characters’ emotions. Prado seems to suspect that, like Raul, “the reader does not often profoundly engage with the work; more often than not he skims it” (2003, 87). Prado reveals here a stereotypical vision of the readers of comics, associated with the consumer of mass entertainment. The insertion of graphic novels within the context of the Spanish comic implies for Prado a consequent change in the reading habits of his audience, a new way of approaching graphic literacy. On the other hand, the graphic novel genre had developed in works that were autobiographical and realist. Art Spiegelman (despite his anthropomorphic characters) relates testimony of war, and Eisner’s is a narrative based on everyday social life. Also, the American underground comic, the realist versions of which had so changed the genre, was characterized by an autobiographical voice that was profoundly sarcastic and provocative, and which was quite removed from the discourse of the graphic novel that Prado was developing. The other generic expectations that the reader of comics that Prado refers to 2.

I have to admit that this island leads me to believe in things that I have never believed in before. Like signs, for example. One could say that everything here holds behind its appearance a strange, immaterial essence, that we, strangers to the islands, cannot understand. We can only intuit, feel it.

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might possess would be related to the stories of superheroes, which are based upon cliffhangers and high drama. Prado’s work, on the other hand, sought to create the intimate atmosphere of the fantastic, in clear homage to certain works of literature, and to the comics of Hugo Pratt, to whom he dedicates a final appendix. In this final supplement of three pages, the final five frames contain the figure of Corto Maltese, Pratt’s most famous character, speaking to Sara, the landlady of the island’s pub. As he gazes out to sea, Maltese confesses to Sara that he longs to keep a forgotten lighthouse. Sara reminds him that the island’s lighthouse is just such an abandoned structure, and Corto Maltese replies, closing the story with a phrase that seems to be directed at the genre of the graphic novel itself: Tendré mucho tiempo para arreglarlo” (2003, 91; I’ll have plenty of time to fix it). The second citation from the start of the graphic novel comes from Jorge Luis Borges’s story “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius.” It is taken from the start of the story, which related the visit to the author of Adolfo Bioy Casares, and the argument they have over dessert on the possibility of creating a novel “in first person, whose narrator would omit or disfigure the facts and fall into diverse contradictions and would allow a select number of readers to figure out a terrible or banal reality” (2003, 6). Prado is hinting to the reader with the inclusion of this citation that we should never rigidly follow the statements of writers about a novel. However, in Trazo de tiza many readers can glimpse a terrible reality in the play of parallel temporalities that causes the constant misunderstandings between characters. Prado, continuing with his litearary allusions to Borges-Bioy, inserts in the first encounter of the protagonists a direct citation of the first novel of Bioy Casares in the mouth of Raul, who seems as if he wants to seduce Ana through his literary posing: “No has dicho palabra en toda la comida. Todo esto me recuerda una narración de Bioy Casares: La invención de Morel. ¿La conoces?” (2003, 20; You haven’t said a word during the entire meal. This all reminds me of a tale by Bioy Casares: The invention of Morel. Do you know it?). Raul feels like the fugitive of Casares’s story, who arrives at a remote desert island filled with abandoned constructions and straight away encounters a woman gazing at the setting sun who ignores him. But the character in La invención de Morel, after discovering the secret that the presence of this woman hides, the fact that she is a simulacrum created by the scientest Morel, manages to convert himself into a simulacrum as well, bringing him closer to her image. Raul, however, cannot take this step, perhaps because in this case it is Ana who writes this part of the story and she does not share her thoughts with him. Raul longs to discover the secret behind Ana’s coldness, and understands that she is waiting for another man, but nothing more. The reader begins to understand, through Ana’s notes, that Raul has the same name as the man she is waiting for. Also, Ana writes a personal text in which is contained the key to the title of the graphic novel set in the white island with the abandoned lighthouse and the long pier: “La isla resulta ser, de esta forma, un límite blanco e incierto entre lo tangible y lo posible / Y así el mundo, el universo todo, queda aquí dividido en dos por este trazo de tiza en mitad del Océano” (2003, 31; The island becomes a white and uncertain limit between the tangible and the posible / And in this way the world, the entire universe, remains divided in two by this trace of chalk in the middle of the ocean). Ana attempts to square her desires with the scenery of the island which she defines as a “puzzle en el que las piezas encajan por su forma, pero no componen la imagen lógica esperada” (2003, 36; puzzle in which the pieces fit together but which do not amount to the expected image). Her desire turns on the message on the wall, which at the end of the novel will give the reader the key to the entire story and the game of parallel times: “me siento implicada desde que, hace un año quise creer que el mensaje que por azar leí en el muro iba, inverosímilmente, dirigido a

Transformations of the graphic novel in Spain577 mí” (2003, 36; I feel involved since one year ago I wanted to believe that the message that I by chance read on the wall was directed at me). Prado finishes his final note with a dedication to Antonio Tabucchi and his Woman of Porto Pim, a book that he was reading when he was completing the first draft of Trazo de tiza and to which he gives praise in the voice of his character, Raul. Tabucchi wrote this book after a voyage to the Azores, and hidden in its pages we can also find a lost island inhabited by a woman who waits. The dream-pulse of El sueño prolongado del Senor T. Max, in an interview given in 1998 to Ramón de España and Ignacio Vidal-Folch, defined the serialized pieces that were to become his most famous graphic novel as the result of a personal failure (1998, 94). In an interview given to Leer magazine in the year 2000, however, he gave a more detailed explanation of its genesis. It was born “under the direct influence of Maus and after some years of creative crisis, and with the search for a graphic style in accordance with the tone of the stories that I had mind” (1998, 93). Max saw in Maus a new form of graphic storytelling, and the book represented an ambitious format in which to investigate new possibilities. Because of this he began to write a script of 160 pages titled El mapa de la oscuridad (The map of darkness), but, as Max explains, this script never reached the reader, as he never managed to put it into pictures. But what is certain is that without this preparatory literary experimentation he would not have felt confident enough to attempt El prolongado sueño del Sr. T. It is interesting to note, however, that in the graphic novel that Max did succeed in creating, editions of his previous, undrawn work appear, drawing the attention of the main character Cristóbal T., and furthermore enveloped with a red band which signals that it has received the critics’ prize of 1995. The metafictional game is intensified when Cristóbal finds to his surprise that he, a humble hardware store employee with no literary ambitions, is the author of this work that he does not remembers writing. Here again we encounter characters who are placed within literary settings. In this case, T dreams that he is a writer about to present a book in the lobby of a hotel, and, in a classic dream sequence, finds that he is absolutely naked. Ana, the main character of Prado’s graphic novel, also has literary aspirations, and on her return to the island sends her manuscript to an editor friend who delicately rejects it because of its uncommercial and overly introspective nature. We discover this aspect of Ana’s character through a letter that the editor, R. Brines, sends her. Once again Prado inserts a written text in order to construct a discourse that would be parallel to the graphic one. In this case, the text straddles the end of chapter six and the opening of chapter seven (1998, 76). Ana has attempted to transform her experience of the island into literature through her keeping of a diary of sensations and desires. Prado, however, denies her literary vocation through the device of the editor’s letter, in which she is encouraged to include more sex and action in her work so as to make it commercially viable. Max introduces his graphic novel not with literary citations, like Prado, but with a preliminary note which gives us a glimpse of the life of Cristóbal T. The note recounts how on March 17, 1993, Cristóbal T, a married man who works as a shop-assistant, went to sleep and fell into a coma that lasted for forty days. On awaking in the hospital, the first thing he asks for is a pen and paper in order to write a detailed narration of what he had dreamt. Max indicates that the story that follows is the graphic transcription of this narrative. This preliminary framing of the text is a nod to the foundational text of the graphic novel, Maus, a text that is also based on

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testimony. Additional framing is provided by the insertion of a report by a Dr. S. Albo, the head of a Neurology Clinic, who affirms that Cristóbal T, profoundly dissappointed and frustrated by his humdrum life, had hidden his most sincere emotions in a deep part of his subconscious. This profound repression, according to the doctor, provoked an emotional state akin to madness and led to T’s comatose state. In the interview of 2000, Max confessed that this was a mature work, which “was the result of a series of personal crises, even if the book itself is in no way autobiographical” (1998, 93). This crisis, in my opinion, ran parallel to the debate of the late 80s between the clear and the ugly line (the French-Belgian tradition versus the underground). Although, as Pablo Dopico explains: “For Max the bitterness of the debates as to the supremacy of the clear or the ugly line had more to do with a confrontation between magazine editors than between artists, for whom this debate did not exist and among whom cordial relations were retained” (2005, 382). There was, therefore, a discursive appropriation of style on the part of editors and intellectuals who were trying to construct a canon on the margins of the commercial press. The artist ultimately depended on these editors in order to make his way in the burgeoning world of the adult comic. This debate did not, apparently, set artists against each other, but it did influence their career paths. Pepe Gálvez and Norman Fernández collect the testimony of Max from 1989 in which he alludes to the problem of orthodox style: “The clear line is mesmerized by its own perfection. Like Narcissus, it cannot tear itself away from its own reflection. Denying itself any possibility of evolution, the clear path has ended up in a dark cul-de-sac. It is the prison of the artist” (2004, 20). At this time Max embarked on a path in which he began to break the limits of style and started to find a more pure and personal voice that cannot be defined by any single tendency. In 1994 he published Orficas, using a mixed technique text, illustration, and framing, and in 1996 the Monólogo y alucinación del gigante blanco (Monologue and hallucination of the white giant), in which he pays homage to Dylan Thomas. Also, in 1995 he created, with the artist Pere Joan, the magazine Nosotros Somos los Muertos (We are the dead), which was the continuation of a fanzine that had appeared in 1993. In this way he became a committed editor who promoted the alternative comic on a worldwide level. The impetus for this direction was the fact that the majority of the work of Spanish and international artists was not published in Spain. Max became involved in the project of canonizing the comic and spreading its publication. Prado would partake in a similar project, creating and directing the annual festival of comics, the Viñetas desde o Atlántico (Cartoons from the Atlantic) held in Coruña. With time both artists would involve themselves with the medium in terms of its intellectualization and in creating dialogues with other forms. Max’s artistic process of rupture and searching marks his story of an unhappy man who finds himself in a dream of 40 days. For Max, for whom the interweaving of human and mythic realities is paramount, it is amusing to submerge his characters and readers in the images of the subconcious. T. encounters three characters: the Chinese Su, Scally Wax (in my opinion a beautiful homage to the Rasputin of Hugo Pratt), and Sara. In this way he will reveal his childhood traumas in an oniric space that obliges him to express his sentiments. He is obliged to return to a simulacrum of the maternal womb in order to decipher the fears that possess him. T. needs to empty himself in order to fulfill his own desires, as had, to a certain degree, the author, in the articulation of a graphic dream, a discursive and aesthetic movement that would not limit his work to the commercial and consumerist formulas of his medium.

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula A comparative panorama María Jesús Fariña Busto and Beatriz Suárez Briones Women’s, gender, feminist studies At the international conference on “Feminism, research and political practice,” organized in 2010 by the Institute for Feminist Studies at the Universidad Complutense in Madrid, in a brief presentation on women’s studies and the unease that the term “feminist” still evokes today, we wondered, what specters can the word “feminist” conjure to create such unease? What areas of meaning does it call on and what imaginary constitutes its limits? Why is it that the enormous and intense legacy of feminist theory, which, with new categories of analysis, has not only promoted a critical consciousness about the need for equality, but also introduced important perspectives and variants in all spheres of knowledge (we see it as an ongoing process, not as something from the past), continues to be undervalued and at times looked down on by academia? What shifts does its entry into institutions of learning require? What horizons of expectation does it generate? These are both social and academic questions that we continue to consider relevant, particularly the last few, in relation to the issue we will now discuss: the state of feminist, gender, and LGBTQ studies within the Spanish academy, and a brief look at their situation in Portugal. But before looking at the responses, and adding a few more questions, we should look briefly at the history of the disciplines, in order to consider the scope and priorities of these fields of study. In May 1970, the first Women’s Studies program was given at San Diego State College (now University), under the direction of Carol Rowell Council. A year later, Sheila Tobias created the Women’s Studies Department at Cornell University. Both events fall within the context of a decade of great political activism and intense social action, among which were the struggles and recognition of the Feminist Movement. Activism and theory coexist in feminism. They need each other and they have both driven equality measures and legal standards adopted by various governments. In Europe they began halfway through the same decade (Flecha García 1999; Min Wotipka, Ramírez, & Díaz Martínez 2007), and in Spain, where Franco’s dictatorship was drawing its last breath, although it resisted, they began at the end of the 1970s. Feminist students and professors began to meet in debate forums and extracurricular activities and ended up creating the first university women’s studies groups. Hence, in 1979, the Women’s Studies Seminar (Seminario de Estudios de la Mujer) was created at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, and at the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, the first conference on patriarchy was held, which led to the Seminari d’Estudis de la Dona. To these was added in 1980 the Women’s Studies Seminar at the Universidad del País Vasco, and many more throughout the country, multiplying in the 1990s: “If in 1991, there were 15 groups or centers specializing in women’s studies, in 1995 there were 31, which turned into 42 in 1999 and close to 60 in 2006” (Pérez Sedeño & Alcalá 2006; see also Larumbe 2004; Martínez Ten, Gutiérrez López, & González Ruiz 2009). Hence, new priorities entered academia, along with new positions toward the content of academic programs and doi 10.1075/chlel.29.47far © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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scholarly paradigms themselves; and this occurred in many fields, although it did so with more intensity and development in the humanities and the social sciences. Also, the socialist government’s creation, in 1983, of the Institute on Women (Instituto de la Mujer) (which right now in 2014 is undergoing reorganization, with its powers dispersed) played a decisive role in stimulating and disseminating women’s studies scholarship, through research grants, through conferences and debate seminars, and through its series of publications, spread out into various collections that coexisted with other publishing houses’ series. It is likely that if not for its publication, the entire body of scholarship would have remained unknown, hence the capital importance of the Institute on Women’s initiatives and those of the publishers that wagered on supporting women’s studies. During those years, some started up and others joined in later (Cátedra with its Feminismos collection, Ediciones de la Sal, Icaria, Narcea, Síntesis, Anthropos, and more recently KRK, Traficantes de Sueños, Egales, and Melusina), as did some universities, by creating specific collections within their presses. We will discuss some of these below. As Teresa Ortiz Gómez (2005, 44) writes, publishing only women’s studies work in the 1980s was not easy in the usual media of the majority of disciplines (or, at least, that is how many of us saw it) and a type of specialized publication began to develop, segregated and interdisciplinary, rather than integrated in its disciplines of origin, which I believe was a very good strategy. A strategy which, nonetheless, today we must revise and strengthen our presence within the disciplines of origin.

We can summarize, then, on the whole, that the most important contributions to women’s studies in Spain in its early years can be grouped, according to Ortiz, “into three broad lines: (a) development of feminist theoretical thinking; (b) deconstruction of philosophical, political, and scientific theory; and (c) creation of a scholarly corpus in which women become the object of study” (Ortiz Gómez 2005, 45). And in the following decades, these original lines of women’s studies grew stronger, broader, and richer, incorporating into the theory many variants and many other points of interest. The university had even changed its appearance, particularly as regards the number of students, which had grown noticeably and now enjoyed an obvious female presence (from 49% in the mid-1980s, the percentage of women students would grow to the current 54%, although, paradoxically, the percentage of women would get smaller, the farther up the academic ladder we went [Martín García 2013]), something which must have had an effect on the perspective of the knowledge being created and on academic structures, or at least so we thought. If the first generations of women to reach university did so in an institution that, according to Consuelo Flecha, selected “the content to be learned, the values to be developed and the skills to be applied based on the codes of a patriarchal society” and that “was focused on the transmission of knowledge and of strategies for a work world ‘masculine in design’” (Flecha García 2007, 69; see also Flecha García 2003), it seemed logical that when the setting changed, the strategies and knowledge should change as well. This did not exactly occur, although at the same time as this transformation, women’s studies (and later, feminist and gender studies) became institutionalized and university standards supported the creation of Institutes, which enjoyed greater recognition and a greater capacity than seminars, although some of the former developed out of the latter. That is the case, for example, of three distinct communities: in Madrid, there was the Institute for Feminist Research (Instituto de Investigaciones Feministas), which became an Institute in 1988, retaining the name of the previous seminar, and which remains quite active today. In

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula581 Valencia, there was the Interdisciplinary Feminist Research Seminar (Seminari Interdisciplinar d’Investigació Feminista), which became the Women’s Studies Institute (Instituto Universitari d’Estudis de la Dona) in 1994. And in Granada, there was the Seminar on Women’s Studies, which became the University Institute on Women’s Studies in 1995. We will not discuss here the polemic around these names, although we consider it to be of extreme importance, because it is not merely a question of names, but, in many cases, of different, theoretical, transcendent positions. However, we would like to note that gender studies do not necessarily imply feminist research, as Lourdes Méndez (2005) discusses, in an interesting reflection to which we refer. Two other events also assisted this institutionalization. On one hand, there was the rise of university associations, which created professional and research links and functioned as a meeting point and focus for visibility of women’s/feminist/gender studies within the country, as well as serving as a link to international associations: in 1991, the Spanish Association for Women’s History Research (AEIHM: Cid López 2006; Segura Graíño 2000 & 2008) and the Spanish Association for Women’s Studies (AUDEM) were created and, much later, in 2001, the Association of Women Researchers and Technologists (AMIT). There was also the 1996 call for the Sectorial Program on Women’s and Gender Studies within the Third National R&D Plan, whose objective was research on aspects related to equality between women and men from a gender perspective. However, the Program, which is underlined every time we look at the history of gender studies in Spain, and rightly so, since it generated such expectations, had its budget shrink over time and thus was only able to fund a small number of the projects submitted. However, paradoxically, though the state of associations and research was very dynamic, this process of institutionalization did not occur in teaching; the number of specific courses on the topic in undergraduate programs was minimal. Further, they were always elective subjects, offered thanks to the hard work of feminist professors who were unwilling to forego even the smallest space within curricula. As the white paper on Women’s studies in Spanish universities from 1975–1991 states, “Women’s studies are not a part of the curriculum of any university degree, either as a core course or as a required course,” and as a result, “they are unable to enter into conventional disciplines in any significant way.” The authors of the white paper add, The whole of the academic community continues without paying any attention to the existence of new information to incorporate into their subjects. Only individuals’ attitudes, in specific cases, bear in mind the scholarly developments on women, or from women’s perspectives. These two issues are clearly the most problematic, because they attack the basic principles of the development of knowledge. (Ballarín Domingo, Gallego Méndez & Martínez Benlloch 1995, 384–85)

This is a fact that did not change in the subsequent transformation of university degrees and did not change much in undergraduate degree programs (títulos de grado), despite a certain optimism in the years before their establishment. This optimism and the expectations that it raised were the trigger for the First Conference on the European Higher Education Area and on Women’s, Feminist and Gender Studies, a debate and work forum held in Madrid in November 2006, with the support of the Secretary General of Equality, the Institute on Women, and the Women and Science Unit (created that same year by the then-Ministry of Education and Science), in which professors and researchers from all areas were active participants. Since the Undergraduate Degree Programs were being designed at that time, it seemed the right moment to think about incorporating subjects with gender perspectives into the programs, and into all of them, regardless of their discipline. At the conference, we drew up the manifesto “For

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the Inclusion of Gender Studies in the New Programs of Study,” signed by around 500 men and women researchers from all universities, from the High Council on Scientific Research and from various seminars, centers, and institutes. However, even though at the time they had institutional support, these initiatives were frustrated and the new educational programs changed form but were designed according to the same androcentric assumptions as always and in only a few isolated cases was some cross-curricular skill related to gender and equality introduced. Institutions and quality control and accreditation agencies did not bother to revise the sexist language of the various programs either. Only the Universidad Rey Juan Carlos in Madrid created a degree program in gender equality, although it was short-lived (it was suspended in 2014–15, claiming “insufficient sustainability,” although it appears that the number of new students admitted and the percentage of credits completed and the average marks in the subjects were higher than those of various other degree programs at the same university), and established “Professional Ethics of Basic Legal Principles and Equality” as a required cross-curricular course for first-year students in many of its undergraduate programs. As for the University of Valencia, since 2010–11, it has been offering four courses on gender relations that can be taken by students from any discipline, as elective credits for students in old degree programs, and, oddly, as “participation in university activities” (as the university’s webpage states) for students in the new degree programs. We believed and still believe that gender mainstreaming in education is essential for achieving a more egalitarian and just society, able to produce changes in its structures and capable of eliminating prejudice and modifying stereotypes. This belief is clearly stated in the text of regulations, decrees, and laws, which have increased in the last decade. In particular, in Spain, the 3/2007 Organic Law on Effective Equality of Women and Men (Ley Orgánica 3/2007 de Igualdad Efectiva de Mujeres y Hombres) recommends supporting “teaching and research on the meaning and importance of equality between women and men,” by including in university programs courses about equality or “creating specific graduate programs.” And, in the European Union, the same year, Recommendation CM/Rec(2007)13 reads as a memorandum of concerns, recitals, and convictions that result in five absolutely clear recommendations for the member states. For interest’s sake, we will give the second and third: “II. promote and encourage measures aimed specifically at implementing gender mainstreaming at all levels of the education system and in teacher education with a view to achieving de facto gender equality and improve [sic] the quality of education; III. create mechanisms, throughout the education system, to favor the promotion, implementation, monitoring and evaluation of gender mainstreaming in schools” (Recommendation CM/Rec(2007)13 of the Committee of Ministers to member states on gender mainstreaming in education, adopted by the Committee of Ministers on October 10, 2007). However, these are recommendations, as the document’s very title shows, with no binding power, which shows their weakness and foretells a limited impact. In fact, that is what occurred. The debate opened during the development of the new undergraduate degree programs within the framework of the European Higher Education Area, and the final form they took speak volumes on this subject. In summary, the meaning is clear; what is lacking is political will and determination to put it into practice. And here we are referring specifically to the decision on “implementing gender mainstreaming at all levels of the education system and in teacher education,” since it is during these general education phases and in the sphere of teacher education that gender mainstreaming is most fitting (Aguilar Ródenas 2013, 179). This is for many reasons, but we will underline two: because an untrained faculty will be unable to train others, and because it is essential to

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula583 transform minds so that conventional equality becomes real equality, at the same time transforming structures that stand in the way of it. In management terms, it is practical and profitable knowledge, economically and socially, since a more egalitarian society will always be a happier and more sustainable one. But, to go back to question marks, what does this mainstreaming mean? Because it seems obvious that it is not just a question of introducing subjects, even cross-cultural ones, into each university degree program, much less of leaving it up to each teacher whether to incorporate this new perspective or not. Gender mainstreaming means mobilizing, displacing, reorganizing knowledge. According to Chilean professor and writer Kemy Oyarzún, admitting gender studies into the academy “requires a reterritorialization of the traditional field” (1997) of academia and also demands a rethinking of all the elements implicated and called into question by these studies: agents, conditions, domain, and scope of the very institutionalization of these studies. Hence, she asks, and we, too, “Which agents foster this knowledge and which agents oppose it? Which conditions make new outlooks possible? Which fields remain hidden and which new fields are being configured? What domains are being called on for this knowledge?” (1997). All these issues examine the bases of the construction, establishment, and institutionalization of knowledge and the difficulty mobilizing or displacing it when new categories come onto the scene. In the case of feminist and gender studies, the fact that their contributions are mainly authored by women and feminists provokes a certain mistrust, even today. The conclusions of Pilar Ballarín’s study of university professors on the subject of the perception and reception of these fields of study speak volumes: “The main obstacles detected among professors to the recognition of the scholarly contributions of Women’s, Feminist and Gender Studies fall into two closely linked spheres. On one hand, there is the persistence in the professoriate of an anachronistic conception of science, and on the other, there is the feminization of this knowledge” (Ballarín Domingo 2013, 98). To the above, the author eloquently adds, It is has been relevant to the purpose of this study to acknowledge how, in the speech of the interviewed professors, deep-rooted prejudices emerge when we ask them about where they ascribe this new knowledge. Even though the scholarly knowledge generated from the fields called Women’s, Feminist and Gender Studies has developed within academic and research institutions, it can also be explained as the academic response from a movement whose collective commitment is based in feminist theory, hence its feminization. This means that the degree to which it is recognized depends less on the value per se of the knowledge, and more on the “critical mass” of the corresponding subject area and the persistence of deep-rooted prejudices against anything that can be considered feminist, which are very present even in sectors that consider themselves to be critical. (2013, 98)

Nonetheless, despite all these obstacles, it is possible to speak in the positive, since equality and feminist and gender studies have an important presence in both research and institutional practices in higher education. On one hand, the majority of Spanish universities currently have units or areas devoted to equality and some even have chairs of Gender or Feminist studies (Cátedra Leonor de Guzmán, Universidad de Córdoba; Cátedra de Estudios de Género, Universidad de Valladolid; Cátedra Caixanova de Estudios Feministas, Universidade de Vigo, which is currently vacant). Similarly, though some have longer histories, a number of Feminist and Gender studies seminars (as well as institutes, some of which we have already mentioned) enjoy great support, and, as we well know, there are also Master’s and PhD programs, established in the 1990s.

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The following were pioneers: Master’s in Women’s Liberation Studies (Máster en Estudios de la libertad femenina, Recerca de Dones, Universitat de Barcelona), established 1988; Women and Health (Mujeres y Salud, Universidad Complutense de Madrid); Ways and Means, Gender and Diversity (Recursos, Género y Diversidad, Universidad de Oviedo), Gender, Identity and Citizenship (Género, Identidad y Ciudadanía, Universidad de Cádiz and Huelva); Education, Leadership, and Equality Policy (Educación, Liderazgo y Políticas de Igualdad, Universidade de Vigo), later changed to Gender Studies; Gender and Equality Policy (Género y Políticas de Igualdad, Universidad de Valencia); and Gender Relations (Relaciones de Género, Universidad de Zaragoza). Of these, some remain and others have disappeared, but many new ones have sprung up: Gender Studies: Women, Culture and Society (Universidad de Almería); Equality and Gender (Igualdad y Género, Universidad de Málaga); Gender Studies and Professional Development (Estudios de Género y Desarrollo Profesional, Universidad de Sevilla); Gender and Equality (Género e Igualdad, Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona); Studies in Sexual Difference (online) (Estudios de la diferencia sexual, DUODA Recerca de Dones, Universitat de Barcelona), since 2000; Women’s and Gender Studies (Estudios de las Mujeres y de Género, Erasmus Mundus GEMMA) (Universidad de Oviedo), the only program in Women’s and Gender Studies supported by the European Commission; Education, Gender and Equality (Educación, Género e Igualdad, Universidade de Santiago de Compostela), since 2007; Gender and Equality Policy (Género y Políticas de Igualdad, Universidade da Coruña); Interdisciplinary Gender Studies (Estudios Interdisciplinares de Género, Universidad de Salamanca); Applied Research in Women’s Gender and Citizenship Studies (Investigación Aplicada en Estudios Feministas, de Género y Ciudadanía, Jaume I de Castelló); Gender and Equality Policy (Género y Políticas de Igualdad, Universidad de La Laguna); Gender and Equality (Género e Igualdad, Universidad Pablo de Olavide, Seville); Gender Relations (Relaciones de Género, Universidad de Zaragoza); Equality Policy and Prevention of Gender Violence (Políticas de Igualdad y Prevención de la Violencia de Género, Universitat de les Illes Balears), since the 2009–10 academic year; Feminist Studies (Estudios Feministas, Instituto de Investigaciones Feministas, Universidad Complutense), established in the 2010–11 academic year; Feminist and Gender Studies (Estudios Feministas y de Género, Universidad del País Vasco); and Gender and Equality Policy (Género y Políticas de Igualdad, Universidad de Valencia), which begins in the current 2014–15 academic year. Many doctoral programs have also been launched, which is very important, because it means continuity in research through doctoral dissertations and other research papers. Among them are Gender, Identity and Citizenship (Género, identidad y Ciudadanía, Universidad de Cádiz and Huelva), which is ten years old; Gender and Diversity (Género y Diversidad, Centro de Investigaciones Feministas, Universidad de Oviedo); Gender Studies (Estudios de Género, Universidade de Vigo), from 2006–10; Gender Studies (Estudios de Género, Universidad de Valencia), since 2007–08, although currently being phased out; Women’s and Gender Studies (Estudios de las Mujeres y de Género, Universidad de Granada; a program born of the merger of the Andalucian Inter-University PhD in Women’s Studies — Doctorado Interuniversitario Andaluz en Estudios de las Mujeres — and the Erasmus Mundus Master’s in Women’s and Gender Studies — Máster Erasmus Mundus en Estudios de las Mujeres y de Género — the first such program in Europe); Feminist and Gender Studies (Estudios Feministas y de Género, Universidad del País Vasco); Interdisciplinary Gender Studies (Estudios Interdisciplinares de Género, an interuniversity program involving the following institutions: Autónoma de Madrid, Alicante, Huelva, Alcalá, La Laguna, Illes Balears, Jaume I de Castelló, and Rey Juan Carlos de

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula585 Madrid), established en 2011; Gender and Equality (Género e Igualdad, Universidad de Murcia); Feminist and Gender Studies (Estudios Feministas y de Género, Universidad Complutense de Madrid), which began in the current 2014–15 academic year. To all this we must add the presence and dissemination of feminist and gender studies through specific collections in trade and academic presses, as we have noted, but also through an important number of specialized journals (each one with a more or less defined line and spread out over the entire country) which we would like to highlight (Torres Ramírez 2003): – – –

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Duoda. Estudios de la diferencia sexual (Recerca de Dones, Universitat de Barcelona). In the line of so-called “feminisms of difference,” it began in 1990 with a single issue per year but since 1993 it has been published biannually. It is in Castilian and Catalan. Asparkía. Investigació feminista (Instituto de Estudios Feministas y de Género Purificación Escribano, Universitat Jaume I de Castelló). It published its first issue in 1992, and except for 1994 and 1996, in which it published two issues, it has been published annually. Arenal. Revista de historia de las mujeres (Instituto de Estudios de la Mujer, Universidad de Granada) was created by a group of founders of the Spanish Association for Women’s History Research (AEIHM) and published its first issue in January 1994. The journal, named in honor of Galician Concepción Arenal, one of the first Spanish women scholars, is published biannually (for a brief history of the journal and its contents, see Nash and Morant, 2002). Lectora. Revista de Dones i Textualitat (currently edited by the groups Creació y Pensament de les Dones, of the Universitat de Barcelona, and Cos i Textualitat, of the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona). This annual journal, founded in 1995, is multilingual and is published in print and online. Hojas de Warmi (Seminario Interdisciplinar Mujeres y Sociedad, Universitat de Barcelona). This journal originated in Warmi, the biannual journal of the NGO Warmi, and was transformed into the annual Anuario Hojas de Warmi by the Women and Society Seminar (Seminario Mujeres y Sociedad). It was published regularly from 1996 to 2003, and was rebooted in 2009, as an electronic journal, by its first director, Lola G. Luna. Indebted to its origins, its objectives are research for feminism, cooperation and solidarity. Clepsidra. Revista de Estudios de Género y Teoría Feminista (Universidad de La Laguna), published annually since 2002. Revista Internacional de Culturas y Literaturas (International journal of cultures and writings) (Grupo de Investigación Escritoras y Escrituras, Universidad de Sevilla). Digital and published annually since 2006 (though it began publishing in 2005), its areas of interest are cultural studies, gender studies, and peripheral writing. Feminismo/s (Centro de Estudios sobre la Mujer, Universidad de Alicante). Open to all areas of knowledge and published biannually since June 2003. Cuestiones de género: de la igualdad y la diferencia (Gender questions: about equality and difference, Seminario Interdisciplinar de Estudios de las Mujeres, Universidad de León), published annually since 2005. Cuadernos Koré (Grupo Koré-Estudios de Género, Universidad Carlos III de Madrid), biannual journal of history and thought about gender, published in print and electronically since 2009. Investigaciones Feministas (Feminist Research) (Instituto de Investigaciones Feministas, Universidad Complutense de Madrid). Published annually since 2009.

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Although it is not affiliated with a university, we would like to mention the journal Festa da palabra silenciada (Silenced Word Celebration), published in Vigo by Feministas Independentes Galegas (Galician Independent Feminists), under the direction of María Xosé Queizán. It has been published annually without interruption since 1983, offering a channel for reflection on and debate of feminist ideas and texts. With a change in orientation starting with issue 14, in which it began allowing male authors, it is defined as plural both culturally and linguistically. In an increasingly technologized and bureaucratized academy where power and decisions are permanently being disputed (Bosch & Ferrer 2013, 40), we women feminist researchers are visible and we promote research. We call attention to the fact that we are women because feminist and gender studies are supported and developed mainly by women researchers, but we must not forget the men who have joined this field as researchers, perhaps with more visibility within (homo)sexuality studies and queer theory, which we will discuss below. There is no doubt that feminist and gender studies are well today. Sometimes they spread in the margins and they always have to fight to keep their space, but they are very much alive; they grow through hardship and they spread like root stock, to use a concept dear to Iris M. Zavala, whose work within cultural and feminist studies is well known. All of this means challenges, at all levels: revising sources, constantly reflecting on the categories of analysis, paying attention to new variables that come onto the scene. But challenges stimulate us and drive knowledge. We must not forget, either, that one of the hallmarks of feminist/gender/women’s studies is its pluri-, inter- and transdisciplinary nature, which is often poorly understood and which carries with it the almost constant need to explain, which makes it even harder to incorporate it into degree programs. Furthermore, these fields are polyphonic, that is, they speak with different voices, adopt different perspectives and follow different lines of research; and, when they manage to penetrate the academy, they substantially transform traditionally masculine scholarly knowledge and power (García de León, Fresno Martín, & Andreu Mediero 2003). At the same time, “as they have been developing […] an epistemological or reflective subject area about their very production has been growing in parallel — like in any field — which cannot be subsumed into any traditional subject area and which has been the subject of many publications” (Ballarín Domingo 2001, 163). We hope to make these elements clear in the sample below, which we offer to complete the panorama we have been sketching up until now, related to institutional practices, teaching, and the dissemination of research through specialized scholarly journals. Although we do not intend to be exhaustive, which is not the purpose of this article, first, we will discuss some seminars and research groups in different Spanish autonomous communities, and then we will briefly discuss the state of the issue in Portugal. With this selection, we aim to reflect the plural structural framework of feminist and gender studies in the current academic context of the Iberian Peninsula and show its development in the various spheres of knowledge. In the aforementioned White Paper on Women’s studies in Spanish universities, there is detailed information about their history over that 15-year period. Since then, with the stimulus and also the struggles we have already discussed, particularly the lack of mainstreaming at some levels of the education system (for a series of reflections on the application of gender crosscurricularly, as well as on the relationship between equality and quality of universities and on advances in gender mainstreaming in different subject areas and the obstacles that still remain, see Perdomo Reyes and Puy Rodríguez 2012), gender studies have established themselves. They

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula587 have increased their presence in higher and specialized education, they have been reinforced in research groups (a significant number of which began in the 2000s), and they have spread to disciplines in which they had been developing more slowly (such as experimental science, biomedicine, and economics). andalusia The fields of history and sociology were some of the earliest to get involved in women’s studies (Cid López 2006, Segura Graíño 2008), and Andalusia was one of the communities where they were most established. Since June 1991, the Spanish Association for Women’s History Research (AEIHM) has been working out of the Universidad de Granada, with the purposes of “promoting research and disseminating feminist studies and Women’s History on a national and international scale, and promoting research in the field of Women’s and Gender History.” To these ends, they promote workshops, seminars, and colloquia, support research with the AEIHM Prize given (since 2008) to doctoral dissertations related to women’s or gender history, and, above all, publish the journal Arenal, with an editorial team of researchers from Andalusian and other Spanish universities, directed by historians Cándida Martínez, of the Universidad de Granada, and Mary Nash, of the Universitat de Barcelona. We have insisted that this piece does not aim to be exhaustive nor to single out particular contributors. Nonetheless, it seems obvious that, due to the lengthy or prolific career of certain researchers, or their affiliation with certain important lines, some names will appear. It would be impossible to mention everyone, just as it is impossible to discuss all subject areas. What is important is to make visible the dense and fruitful structural framework. At the Universidad de Málaga, the Association of Historical Studies on Women (Asociación de Estudios Históricos sobre la Mujer, AEHM) is a meeting point for professors and researchers from varied subject areas, and a body that is capable of promoting activities related to research and its dissemination. Founded in 1986, it has been funding the Premio de Divulgación Feminista Carmen de Burgos since 1993, an award designed to raise awareness of articles published in newspapers and magazines that reflect on women’s social or living situations from a feminist perspective. Since the association’s founding, and through its initiative, the Malaga Provincial Council welcomed to its press a collection called Library of Women’s Studies (Biblioteca de Estudios sobre la Mujer), which coexists with the university’s own Atenea collection. Another area, theory and history of education, also has longstanding research groups, which include those coordinated by professors Pilar Ballarín Domingo (Universidad de Granada, secretary of the journal Arenal from 1994–2000) and Consuelo Flecha García (Universidad de Sevilla), authors of numerous works on women’s education and their progressive entry into academia and science, as well as on their current situation within various teaching and research contexts. Regarding the history of science, a standout is Teresa Ortiz Gómez, professor of that discipline in the Universidad de Granada, where she is on the faculty of the Erasmus Mundus Master’s in Women’s and Gender Studies, where she is currently teaching a course titled “Gender, Body and Women in History: Health Practices and Scientific Discourse” (“Género, cuerpo y mujeres en la historia: prácticas de salud y discursos científicos”). In addition to her own research, Teresa Ortiz has focused on disseminating Gender Studies’ contributions to science and knowledge (Ortiz Gómez 1998, 1999, 2002, 2005, 2006 & 2008).

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Lastly, in the domain of cultural studies and feminist theory and literary history, we find the research group “Women Writers and Writing,” based at the Universidad de Sevilla and spearheaded by Mercedes Arriaga Flórez. It supports the digital journal Revista Internacional de Culturas y Literaturas (International journal of cultures and literatures) and carries out an enormous amount of work organizing conferences and meetings, whose results, like those of the research group itself, are offered to the public through a very active publishing policy. aragon, asturias, cantabria In 1994, the Interdisciplinary Seminar on Women’s Studies was formed at the Universidad de Zaragoza, which initiated the Concepción Gimeno de Flaquer Student Research Prize. More recently, Female Voices and Spaces: Feminist Research Seminar (Voces y espacios femeninos. Seminario de Investigaciones Feministas) was formed, made up of women historians, philologists, and philosophers, with a broad research agenda: the role of women in history, contemporary feminist theory, and women writers and their entry into the canon. Also, on an institutional level, through its collection Sagardiana, Estudios Feministas, the university press has been promoting specialized studies for more than half a century. Nearly a decade later, in 2003, the Universidad de Oviedo inaugurated its Feminist Research Center (Centro de Investigaciones Feministas, CIFEM), which is defined as a feminist and interdisciplinary meeting space made up of various research groups from different specializations and three seminars: the Women’s Studies Seminar, headed by Professor Isabel Carrera Suárez, with extensive research on feminist and postcolonial studies; the Demeter: History, Women and Gender Group, coordinated by Rosa María Cid López; and the permanent Women and Literature Seminar, coordinated by Esther Álvarez López. The subject areas involved are primarily from the humanities and social sciences, although they seek interdisciplinary research, as their publications attest. In a different sphere, since it is part of a faculty of extension, the Universidad de Cantabria created the Isabel Torres Interdisciplinary Group on Women’s and Gender Studies (Aula Interdisciplinar Isabel Torres de Estudios de las Mujeres y del Género) in 2004, an organism whose main purpose is to contribute to the recognition and dissemination of gender studies research. castile and león The Universidad de León’s Interdisciplinary Seminar on Women’s Studies (Seminario Interdisciplinar de Estudios de las Mujeres) was formally established in 1997, with faculty from philology, history, psychology, and sociology, joined much later, in 2007, by faculty from theory of education and public law (Blanco García & Leoz 2009). In an article published in 2009, Ana Isabel Blanco and Daniele Leoz discuss the history of the seminar and the obstacles and strategies of resistance it needed to employ to overcome them. These are experiences shared by other groups, especially by smaller universities, as the authors claim: “obstacles and barriers not very different from those that colleagues from other universities indicate: segregation with respect to the disciplines of origin, the consequent lack of authority […] or our contradictory situation within the system, because we are at the center but they consider us marginal” (Blanco & Leoz 2009, 66). But the seminar survives, on the one hand seeking to be visible within its own institution, and, on the other, establishing links with other institutions that collaborate on projects and contribute resources. In fact, since 2005, the journal Cuestiones de género: de la igualdad y la diferencia has been the responsibility of the Seminar.

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula589 In Salamanca, also in 1997, a group of professors who had already incorporated gender into their teaching formed the Seminar on Women’s Studies (Seminario de Estudios de la Mujer) and promoted the establishment of a PhD program. With the experience of this now-defunct Seminar, in 2002 the current Center for Women’s Studies (Centro de Estudios de la Mujer) was formed, which unites six research groups, three of which are interdisciplinary (Gender Violence, Women, Science, Health and Environment, Feminism, and Gender). The Universidad de Valladolid’s University Seminar on Non-sexist Education (Seminario Universitario de Educación no sexista), created in 1991, has the particular quality of orienting its research toward equal coeducation, sharing educational interventions from a non-androcentic perspective. catalonia There are many groups established at Barcelona universities, of which we will highlight a few with defined lines of research. At the Universitat de Barcelona, there is Multiculturalism and Gender (Multiculturalisme i Gènere), formed in 1997 by Professor Mary Nash and specializing in issues like cultural representations of alterity, migration, and cultural diversity; and Women’s Creation and Thought (Creació y Pensament de les Dones), consisting of a Center and two seminars, overseen by Marta Segarra, Professor of French Literature and Gender Studies: the Women and Literature Center (Gender, Sexuality, and Cultural Criticism) (Centre Done i Literatura [Gènere, sexualitats, critica de la cultura]), the Philosophy and Gender Seminar (Seminari Filolosfía i Gènere) (created by Professor Fina Birulés in 1990), and Mute Dea Tacita (Women and Gender in Antiquity Study Group) (Tacita Muta [Grup d’Estudis de Dones y Gènere a l’Antiguitat]). The Center is responsible for the Women and Culture (Mujeres y Cultura) collection published by Icaria and for the journal Lectora. Revista de Dones i textualitat (Reader: Journal of Women and Textuality). The Duoda Women’s Research Center (Duoda. Recerca de Dones) has also been carrying out its work at the Universitat de Barcelona since its founding in 1982. Its research is in thought about sexual difference, closely linked to the work of the Milan Women’s Bookstore Collective and the women’s philosophical community, Diotima, at the University of Verona, and it disseminates its research through the journal Duoda, which we have already mentioned. María-Milagros Rivera Garretas’s work represents the center’s perspective. The Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona is the headquarters of Body and Textuality (Cos i Textualitat), formed in 2005 and coordinated by Meri Torras, Professor of Comparative Literature and Literary Theory. The body and its discursive representations are the primary research topic of this group, approached from an interdisciplinary perspective boosted by the diverse geographic and disciplinary origins of its members (cultural studies, comparative literature, philology, art). The Interdisciplinary Seminar on Women’s Studies (Seminari Interdisciplinar d’Estudis de la Dona) at the Universitat de Lleida has been a functioning research group since 1987. And at the Universitat Rovira i Virgili, in Tarragona, the GREC research group (Gender, Race, Ethnicity, and Class) was created in 1989. valencian community, balearic islands, canary islands At the Universitat de València, the Interdisciplinary Seminar on Feminist Research (Interdisciplinar d’Investigació Feminista), formed in late 1986, would become the University Institute on Women’s Studies (Institut Universitari d’Estudis de la Dona) in 1991, with the

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goal of facilitating interdisciplinary collaboration on feminist studies. The coordinator of the Seminar, economist María Luisa Moltó, would also become the first director of the Institute, which included researchers from various disciplines with a long history in women’s studies: Neus Campillo, in philosophy; Giulia Colaizzi, in discourse studies; Isabel Morant, in history (since 1991, Morant has been directing Cátedra’s Feminisms collection, which has been an extremely important channel for the dissemination of feminist research; Morant 2011); Capitolina Díaz, in sociology; and Luz Sanfeliú, in the history of education. In 2009, the Universitat Jaume I at Castelló founded the Institute on Feminist and Gender Studies (Institut d’Estudis Feministas i de Génere). This consolidated the research and activities of the Seminar on Feminist Research (Seminari d’Investigació Feminista), which had been in place since 1991, and was responsible for publishing the journals Asparkía and Dossieres Feministes (Feminist dossiers), which the Institute continues to do. In 2014, the Universidad de Alicante created the University Institute on Gender Studies Research (Instituto Universitario de Investigación de Estudios de Género) in an attempt to strengthen the activities carried out by the Center for Women’s Studies (Centro de Estudios sobre la Mujer), founded in 1988 as a feminist studies center. With respect to the Canary and Balearic Autonomous Communities, the Universidad de la Laguna has had a Center for Women’s Studies (Centro de Estudios sobre la Mujer) since 1995, although, as at most universities, there had been meetings of and debates among groups of professors interested in feminist studies some years earlier. At the Universitat de les Illes Balears, within the Gender Studies (Estudios de Género) group, we find social psychology professors Victoria A. Ferrer and Esperanza Bosch, coordinators of the Gender Studies Summer University since its debut in 1997. In 2004, the Women and Letters Seminar (Seminari Dones i Lletres) was formed, specializing in English-language literature; and, since 2006, the Chair on Gender-based Violence Studies (Cátedra de Estudios de Violencia de género) has been in place, which seeks to promote and develop interdisciplinary and gender-inclusive education and research on gender-based violence, a line of research that has increased in importance in the last decade. galicia Of the three Galician universities, the Universidade da Coruña and the Universidade de Vigo are the newest. In 2012, at the former, the Center for Gender and Feminist Studies (Centro de Estudos de Xénero e Feministas) was created; under the direction of sociologist Rosa Cobo, it brings together researchers from sociology, law, economics, history, and philology. At the Universidade de Vigo, at the Vigo campus, we feminist researchers, mainly from disciplines within the humanities, have been working for over 15 years. In 1997, a group of professors from English, Spanish and literary theory formed the Theories of Difference Feminar (Feminario Teorías da diferencia), which was the basis for the Theories of Difference and their Textual Practice research project, funded by the Xunta de Galicia from 1997 to 1999. Some years later, the group split into the two current Feminars: the Feminisms and Resistance: Theory and Practice Research Feminar (Feminario de investigación Feminismos y resistencias: teorías y prácticas), coordinated by Belén Martín Lucas and Ana Bringas López, who come from the discipline of English literature and whose main theoretical framework is postcolonial feminism; and the Feminist and Queer Theory Interdisciplinary Feminar (Feminario Interdisciplinar Teorías Feministas y Teoría Queer), coordinated by the authors of this article, Beatriz Suárez Briones and María Jesús Fariña Busto, who come from the discipline of literary theory and Spanish literature, and whose lines of investigation focus

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula591 on feminist and LGBTQ theory, as well as on anything related to the territory of the body and sexuality and their representations. At the Universidade de Santiago de Compostela, the Interdisciplinary Center for Feminist and Gender Studies Research (Centro Interdisciplinario de Investigacións Feministas e Estudos de Xénero [CIFEX]), was created fairly recently (2006), although some researchers affiliated with it have been working in the area for much longer. Such is the case for its director, Rita Radl, Professor of Education; for María Xosé Agra, Professor of Philosophy; for Mª José Rodriguez Galdo, Professor of Economic History and Institutions and for Teresa Moure, Professor of Linguistics. madrid As we have mentioned, the Universidad Autónoma is at the forefront of the creation of seminars, having founded, in 1979, the Seminar on Women’s Studies (Seminario de Estudios de la Mujer) under the direction of María Ángeles Durán, the first Spanish sociologist to focus on the sphere of domestic work (Durán 1972) and other previously unstudied spheres, and promoter of a great number of research and debate initiatives. Since 1983, at the Universidad Complutense, a group for scholarly exchange and research existed, coordinated by historian María Carmen GarcíaNieto, which was the seed for the Institute of Feminist Research (Instituto de Investigaciones Feministas), founded in 1988 and whose first director was Celia Amorós (UNED), philosopher and key figure in the line called “feminism of equality,” along with Amelia Valcárcel, also a philosopher, and affiliated with the Universidad de Oviedo for many years. Although they were positioned in a very particular perspective, both scholars’ mark on feminist studies is indisputable, as is the importance of their work, which is a must-read. In the case of Celia Amorós, the publication of her Critica de la razón patriarcal (Toward a criticism of patriarchal reason, 1985) was extremely significant, followed by La gran diferencia y sus pequeñas consecuencias… para las luchas de las mujeres (The great difference and its small consequences for the fight of women, 2005), for which she received the National Essay Award in 2006. Amelia Valcárcel’s works include Sexo y filosofía. Sobre ‘mujer’ y ‘poder’ (Sex and philosophy: On “women” and “power,” 1991), La política de las mujeres (The politics of women, 1997), and Feminismo en el mundo global (Feminism in a global world, 2008, see also Amorós 1999). Since its beginnings, the interdisciplinary and interfaculty Institute of Feminist Research (Instituto de Investigaciones Feministas) has been a meeting space for a large number of professors and scholars from different universities and different fields who have done important work in feminist studies: Cristina Segura Graíño, Concha Faoaga and Gloria Nielfa in the historical sphere; Estrella de Diego in modern art; Ángeles de la Concha (UNED) in English: Raquel Osborne (UNED) in sociology; Silvia Tubert in psychoanalysis; Neus Campillo (Universitat de València), Cristina Molina Petit (Complutense), and Alicia Puleo (Universidad de Valladolid) in various streams of philosophy. The Institute of Feminist Research is one of the most widely known and one whose activities are most visible, through its many research meetings and its line of monographs, to which it added, in 2009, the coordination of the annual journal Investigaciones Feministas. Newer universities, like Rey Juan Carlos, founded in 1996, have also joined the field of gender studies. The Department of Communication hosts the Seminar on Identity and Gender Studies (Seminario de Estudios de Identidad y Género), whose main research takes place within the field of communication technology.

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Lastly, in the field of sociolinguistics, we would like to mention the research carried out by Professor Mercedes Bengoechea (Universidad de Alcalá), who has a great deal of experience in reflection and research on the sexist use of language. She was the driving force behind the NOMBRA group (NOMBRA was the advisory board on language for the Institute of Women), along with Ana Vargas, Carmen Alario, and Eulalia Lledó, whose contributions to this topic are numerous. basque country and navarre The Euskal Herriko Unibertsitatea (University of the Basque Country) showed interest in women’s studies early on, with the creation of a seminar on the topic in 1980. Here we must highlight research in both the sciences and the humanities. In science, we must highlight the research carried out by Eulalia Pérez Sedeño, Professor of Logic and the Philosophy of Science, Spanish National Research Council (CSIC) researcher since 2002, and director of the Spanish Science and Technology Foundation (Fundación Española para la Ciencia y la Tecnología [FECYT]) from 2006 and 2008, whose numerous pieces of research on science and gender are models for anyone interested in this field. As we have done for other authors, we would like to underline Eulalia Pérez Sedeño’s educational work and her concern with all the problems that surround gender studies within academies and institutions that have not overcome their androcentric roots. In the humanities, we must highlight the work of Lourdes Méndez Pérez (1988, 2004, 2007), the first Spanish full Professor of the Anthropology of Art, whose research has been affiliated with feminist studies from the beginning, focusing on all that relates to the representation of the body, to identity, and the politics of inclusion/exclusion of artists in the production, dissemination, and legitimization of art, issues that continue to interest her. At the same university and within the same discipline of anthropology, but this time social, we find the work of Teresa del Valle and Arantza Campos Rubio; and in feminist economics, that of Mertxe Larrañaga Sarriegui. portugal As the authors of the Dicionário da Crítica Feminista (Dictionary of feminist criticism) affirm, “compared to other European countries (and there is no need to think of Northern Europe, which has always been more open to new schools of theory; it is enough to look at Spain or Italy, where Feminist Studies are fairly well developed), Feminist Studies are still in an emerging stage” (Macedo & Amaral 2005, 59). Nonetheless, for institutional and research purposes, data today indicate an interesting presence at some universities. We must bear in mind that the political context of Salazar’s dictatorship and Caetano’s continuation did not exactly favor civic movements or special interest groups, or dissidence either, although some things were happening. In 1968, the Democratic Women’s Movement (Movimiento Democrático de Mulheres [MDM]) was founded, and in spring 1972, Maria Isabel Barreno, Maria Teresa Horta, and Maria Velho da Costa published their collective work Novas Cartas Portuguesas (New Portuguese Letters), whose dissemination was immediately prohibited and whose authors were detained on charges of corrupting public morals, among others. Nonetheless, the book crossed borders and these three authors’ collective project marked a turning point in the feminist struggle. The year after its confiscation in Portugal, French publisher Éditions du Seuil showed interest in it, eventually publishing it in 1974 with a preface by Evelyn Le Garrec and Monique Wittig, and in 1976, Grijalbo published it in Spanish. In Portugal, the three authors’ trial concluded in 1974 when the regime fell (Pereira 2011). In fact, Maria Isabel Barreno and Maria Teresa

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula593 Horta took the initiative to form the Women’s Liberation Movement (Movimento de Libertação das Mulheres [MLM]), which was established between 1974 and 1975 and disbanded in 1979. The state had created in 1975 (and institutionalized in 1977) the Commission on the Condition of Women (Comissão para a Condição Feminina), at the request of Maria de Lourdes Pintassilgo, then-Minister of Social Issues. In 1991, with a new focus, reflected in its name, it became the Commission on the Equality and Rights of Women (Comissão para a Igualdade e para os Direitos das Mulheres). These were the predecessors of today’s Commission on Citizenship and Gender Equality (Comissão para a Cidadanía e Igualdade de Género [2007]), the responsibility of the President. Although the 1983 celebration of the first Seminar on Women’s Studies (Seminário de Estudos sobre a Mulher) is considered the trigger for this area of research in Portugal, women’s and feminist studies developed more intensively in the 1990s. In 1989, the Center for the Study of Migration and Cultural Relations (Centro de Estudos das Migrações e das Relacões Culturais [CEMRI, Universidade Aberta de Lisboa]), was created, whose research included women’s and gender studies; in 1991, the Portuguese Association of Women’s Studies (Associação Portuguesa de Estudos sobre as Mulheres [APEM]) was founded, a national organization whose purpose was to support and kickstart women’s, gender and feminist studies. Teresa Joaquim (2004, 89) says the following about these names: The very name Women’s Studies is part of a historical trajectory that we must understand within the context of the development of Social Sciences and feminism in Portugal […] The analytical category of “gender” was established in Portugal in the 1990s, around the axes of relational aspects in the construction of the feminine (and the masculine). And it became a kind of a passe-partout, particularly as it migrated and was translated to institutional contexts, in which its use — in this institutionalized translation — was often incorrect, avoiding the criticism that it involves […] The category of gender became an important contribution, but its source went unrecognized: the area of women’s studies, of feminist theory. Hence, the concept became depoliticized.

In 2012, the Interdisciplinary Center for Gender Studies (Centro Interdisciplinar de Estudos de Género [CIEG]) was created, bringing together three research groups (Gender, Feminism and Women’s Studies; Politics, Institutions and Citizenship; and Gender and the Construction of Modern Society). The APEM welcomes researchers from different academic and scholarly institutions and has been publishing the biannual journal Ex aequo since 1999. The press’s express purpose is to “contribute to the transformation of practices and representations that are stereotyped or discriminatory on the basis of sex or any other identity marker,” a goal that shows in its rejection of contributions that go no further than simple empirical descriptions. In that sense, the press’s position is very eloquent: descriptions must always support analysis that contributes to “the problematization of the main issues that affect relations between men and women in society” (). This detail is important, because, as we have mentioned, one of the problems that feminist studies faces derives from misunderstandings and errors in the use of the categories they analyze. Maria do Mar Pereira and Ana Cristina Santos refer to this in their introduction to the most recent issue of the journal (Ex aequo 29, 2014), a dossier on “Epistemologias e metodologias feministas em Portugal: contributos para velhos e novos debates” (“Feminist epistemologies and methodologies in Portugal: Contributions to debates

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old and new”). Both authors are very interested in analyzing the contributions of feminist and gender studies, as well as in discussing the difficulties they have had and still have to get around and defining their challenges and their full interdisciplinary potential, maintaining that “their vitality and pertinence in such changing times depends a great deal on having multiple stakes in diverse and wide-ranging areas — including lines of research that are uncomfortable, inappropriate and insolent.” Hence, indiscipline joins interdisciplinarity in the authors’ play on words: “Interdisciplinary for Indisciplinary” is women’s, gender, and feminist studies’ great disruptive capital. From the contributions collected in this issue of Ex aequo and those in issue 20 (2009), a dossier on “Performatividades e abordagens queer” (“Queer performativities and approaches”), we can see the emergence of new perspectives and formulations compared to those of the last decade, as represented by the pieces in issues 5 and 6 of the same journal (2001 and 2002), which were dedicated to the construction of women’s studies with the goal of offering an assessment of their theoretical and practical involvement in various scholarly disciplines within the national sphere (philosophy, literary studies, education, law, economics, sociology, history). Another center, Faces of Eve Women’s Studies Center (Faces de Eva. Centro de Estudos sobre a Mulher) was created in 2001 in the Universidade Nova de Lisboa. It came out of a research project of the same name carried out in 1997 by the Pluridisciplinary Institute for the History of Ideas (Instituto Pluridisciplinar de Historia de las Ideas). It has maintained pluridisciplinarity and cross-curricularity as its main axes and it edits the Faces de Eva. Estudos sobre a Mulher (Faces of Eve Women’s Studies) journal biannually. As for specialized training, the first Master’s in Women’s Studies was created in 1995 at the Universidade Aberta de Lisboa; later, a master’s program on Women’s Studies: Women in Society and Culture would be established at the Universidade Nova de Lisboa, starting in 2003–04, as well as a Master’s and PhD in Feminist studies at the Universidade de Coimbra. A project of a different nature is the Feminist University, launched in Lisbon in late 2013. It is a feminist culture and intervention center supported by the Union of Women for Alternatives and Answers (União de Mulheres Alternativa e Resposta [UMAR]), to which scholar Manuela Tavares belongs. It is a truly interesting project that aims to bridge the gap between the academy and activism, taking gender issues beyond the space of academia but seeking to combine the knowledge produced in that space with life experiences. Its program, organized over a two-year period, offers thematic cycles containing very diverse content: Migration and Citizenship, Art and Literature, Feminist Thought, and Lesbian Sexuality and Citizenship, among others. In addition to being an activist in the aforementioned association (UMAR), of which she has been a part since its founding in 1976, Manuela Tavares is a researcher at the Center for the Study of Migration and Intercultural Relations (Centro de Estudos das Migrações e Relações Interculturais [CEMRI]) and she belongs to the advisory board of the Elina Guimarães Documentation Center and Feminist Archive (Centro de Documentação e Arquivo feminista Elina Guimarães), a center formed in 2005 within the UMAR with the goal of preserving the historical memory of feminism. Manuela Tavares’s doctoral dissertation, turned into a book, is a reference work about the development and challenges of feminism in Portugal in the second half of the twentieth century (Tavares 2000; see also Tavares 2011). But feminist research is also being produced outside of Lisbon. Ana Gabriela Macedo and Ana Luísa Amaral, coauthors of the Diccionário da Crítica feminista mentioned earlier, are

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula595 carrying out research at the Universidade do Minho and the Universidade do Porto, respectively. Macedo directs the journal Diacrítica, whose 2008 issue (22/3) contained a dossier dedicated to gender and feminist studies, and Amaral, a renowned poet, studies comparative poetics, feminist studies, and queer studies. Conceição Nogueira, at Minho, and Helena Costa Araújo, at Porto do so as well. At Coimbra, Ana Cristina Santos is a sociologist of and activist in the feminist and LGBTQ movements, and, at Évora, Maria Fernanda da Silva Henriques studies bioethic and theology and feminism. These are just a few names working right now in a developing field of study.

LGBTQ studies To a fair degree, research on LGBTQ topics and products continues to be individual work, shaped by activism, that can now be done within the academy but that is still not integrated or institutionalized in it. LGBTQ studies as a specific discipline do not exist in Spain. What does exist is the increasingly well-known, significant, and varied work of individual activists who, from inside the academy (and also from outside), as professors or researchers, organize themselves and act, research, and publish through networks. For this necessarily brief overview, we will not take into account research projects (projects that doubtless merit consideration as “empathetic” studies, like Olga Viñuales’s, Antoni Mirabet i Mullol’s, and Xosé Chao Rego’s) in which LGBTQ people or topics are considered from “outside,” no matter how empathetic, normalizing, or inclusive they may be, and no matter how much they are teleologically oriented toward the production of knowledge on marginal and marginalized subculture(s). They are problematic for us because, looking at the subject from a heterosexuality that to itself is a neutral or unbiased point of view, the point of view of an impartial observer, and which at no time questions itself, ends up reifying itself as the zero degree of sexuality. And the LGBTQ community is anything but a passive object of study. We can officially say that LGBTQ studies in the Spanish academy came to be in the summer of 1995, when Professor Xosé Manuel Buxán of the Faculty of Fine Arts at the Universidade de Vigo created a course called Gay and Lesbian Studies in Spain (Os Estudos gais e lesbianos no Estado español). At the time, he said, “we are publishing some research that we intend to be heterodox and daring with respect to the main discourse of academia; today […] we can even do this within the system, within the institution of academia” (Buxán 1997, 13). Nearly 20 years after this statement, homophobia survives in the Spanish academy, since it can still appear in the subjects of certain disciplines with little action on the part of the institution to effect change, leaving it to LGBT students and groups to report homophobic and misogynistic situations and content that claim academic freedom as a justification for their continued existence. We can call the two previous decades, the late 1970s and the 1980s, the iron age of LGBT research, in which a few mighty, valiant figures stand out. Through these metaphorical descriptions (iron age, silver age, golden age, glorious age) we evoke the categories that Monique Wittig and Sande Zeig (1981) employed to describe the evolution of lesbian history. To these figures we owe pioneering studies on homosexuality that reclaim it: activists Armand de Fluvià (1979), Héctor Anabitarte, and Ricardo Lorenzo (1979), as well as medical doctor Alberto García Valdés (1981). Anthropologist Alberto Cardín (1984, 1988, 1990) was also an early player, dealing with the association of gender and sexuality and its idiomatic expressions in various cultures and,

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particularly, analyzing gay culture during the AIDS crisis. He was also the driving force responsible for creating publisher Laertes’ Rey de Bastos collection, the first collection in Spain devoted solely to LGBT literature, a collection in which he himself published, with Armand de Fluvià, Sida: ¿Maldición bíblica o enfermedad letal? (AIDS: biblical plague or lethal illness) in 1985. That same year, he admitted that he was suffering from AIDS, becoming one of the foremost reporters and researchers on the disease in Spain, and in 1991, he published, also with Laertes, SIDA: enfoques alternativos (AIDS: alternative perspectives). He died one year later, at age 44, truncating a brilliant and controversial teaching and research career. Among the challenges that obstructed research at that time and made his achievements heroic were not only the social stigma of being (obviously) gay, but also the practical barriers that homophobia constantly raises to impede the expression of any non-normative sexuality. Let the short anecdote in “Thanks and Curses” (“Agradecimientos e imprecaciones”) in Alberto Cardín’s Guerreros, chamanes y travestís (Warriors, shamans and transvestites) illustrate: “I experienced the astonishment of seeing the way Professor Esteva and his acolytes denied me access to the library in the Department of Anthropology of the Spanish National Research Council, the only library that held a collection of periodicals that were fundamental to this research” (quoted in Buxán 1997, 21–22). For the express purpose of fighting against the identification of homosexuality with AIDS, which many conservative groups and media outlets wished to maintain and disseminate throughout Spain and other Western countries, Ricardo Llamas (Universidad Complutense) compiled the essay collection Construyendo sidentidades. Estudios desde el corazón de una pandemia (Constructing AIDSdentities. Studies from the heart of a pandemic, 1995), in which the authors, the majority of whom are gay, approach the issues in the first person, with a tone somewhere between acceptance and denunciation. This text was followed in 1997 by Miss Media: una lectura perversa de la comunicación de masas (Miss Media: a perverse reading of mass communication), in which Llamas demonstrates homophobic prejudice surrounding representations of “other” sexualities and analyzes the way tacitly creating a dominant order of representation, which is dominantly heterosexual (“the audience”) leads to the exclusion of any other subject position that does not coincide with the heterosexual one. And, in 1998, he published Teoría torcida. Prejuicios y discursos en torno a la homosexualidad (Twisted theory: prejudice and discourse around homosexuality), an ambitious, well- articulated and well-argued reference book, which is commonly considered the first Spanish contribution to queer studies. Ricardo Llamas’s three texts come from the 1990s, the silver age of LGBTQ production in Spain. At that point, the number of collectives had increased, and in some neighborhoods of big cities there was a thriving business and social life. In 1991, Oscar Guasch, anthropologist and professor at the Universitat de Barcelona, was a finalist for the Anagrama Essay Prize with his La sociedad rosa (Pink society), a must-read in gay ethnography, although perhaps a bit clichéd today. In the following decade, Guasch (2006 and 2007) continued to produce books in which he analyzed sexual dissidence and heterosexuality as a social problem, new masculinities and the social consequences of AIDS and homophobia. During the same period, fellow anthropologist José Antonio Nieto launched the Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia’s Master’s in Human Sexuality and published educational anthropology texts such as Cultura y Sociedad en las prácticas sexuales (Culture and society in sexual practices, 1990) and La sexualidad en la sociedad contemporánea. Lecturas Antropológicas (Sexuality in contemporary society: Anthropological readings, 1991). From a queer heterosexual position he defends sexuality as a fluid continuum

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula597 that contains a multiplicity of possible identities. In his recent works, he delves into transsexuality and transgenderism. In 1996, fellow anthropologist Begoña Enguix, currently a professor at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya, published Poder y Deseo (Power and desire), and since then, she has been working on analyzing the structure of the gay male world in urban environments and on the social construction of sex. And in 1997, Valencia Fine Arts professors Juan Vicente Aliaga and José Miguel G. Cortés published an essay reflecting on the realities of gays and lesbians, Identidad y diferencia: sobre la cultura gay en España (Identity and difference: on gay culture in Spain), calling on the protagonists of gay interest and culture movements of the time (Fefa Vila, Pedro Zerolo, Eduardo Mendicutti, Ricardo Llamas, Mili Hernández, Alberto Mira). In the same year, Juan Vicente Aliaga had published Bajo vientre. Representaciones de la sexualidad en la cultura y el arte contemporáneos (Underbelly: Representations of sexuality in contemporary art and culture, 1997). Aliaga and Cortés had also done important work curating exhibitions; in Aliaga’s case (2007), it was pioneering work curating exhibitions and carrying out research on feminist art, and in Cortés’s it was equally pioneering work curating exhibitions and carrying out research on issues of masculine and trans identities. In 1999, Alberto Mira published Para entendernos. Diccionario de cultura homosexual, gay y lésbica (To understand us: Dictionary of homosexual, gay and lesbian culture), the first Spanish dictionary of gay culture. Halfway through the decade, the aforementioned key incident in the history of LGBTQ studies in Spain had taken place: the organization of the summer course Gay and Lesbian Studies in Spain at Vigo. This course broke psychological barriers, we believe, by bringing the reality of LGBTQ research in the Spanish academy out of the closet not as a possible result of the heroic labor of individuals, like in the iron age, but as a collective opportunity that would open the door for the golden age of the following decade. There were three women participants in the course and the book it produced, out of a total of twelve: Mercedes Bengoechea, Beatriz Suárez Briones, and Fefa Vila. Eight years later, in 2003, Xosé Manuel Buxán organized a new seminar, this time at the Universidad Internacional Menéndez Pelayo in Pontevedra, under the title Sexualities and Culture (Sexualidades e cultura), whose papers were collected in Lecciones de disidencia. Ensayos de crítica homosexual (Lessons on dissidence: Gay criticism essays, 2006). Eight years had passed since Gay and Lesbian Studies in Spain but the number of female researchers remained the same — three: Consuelo Chacartegui, María Jesús Fariña, and Olga Viñuales. This underrepresentation clearly reveals the reality of female visibility in the LGBT world in Spain until very recently. And this despite the fact that Buxán was completely committed to making women in the LGBT sphere visible. In fact, Xosé Manuel Buxán and Beatriz Suárez Briones were vice-president and president of Legais, the first mixed and LGBT collective in Galicia. But the arrival of LGBT studies in the Spanish academy could not be stopped: new seminars, courses, conferences were held in Vigo, Barcelona, Madrid, Salamanca, UNED, Sevilla, and Internacional de Andalucía, País Vasco and Menéndez Pelayo. LGBTQ was taken on inside and outside the academy and from many disciplines: anthropology, sociology, political science, art, literature, film, history. At the same time, feminist and gender studies, with the benefit of fifteen years of struggle, had opened possibilities for the study of sexuality in general and sexual diversity in particular. And within Institutes of Gender Studies (with all their diverse names), feminist professors had made it possible for young researchers to launch research projects on these topics (Moreno and Pichardo 2006).

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At the turn of the new century, LGBTQ research in Spain entered its golden age. The figure of Paco Vidarte, Professor of Philosophy at the UNED, radical activist, and true queer ideologue, deserves a very special mention here. He was the organizer of one of the first Spanish queer meetings, the UNED’s 2001 summer course in A Coruña, Gender and Difference: Strategies for Cultural Criticism (Género y diferencia: estrategias para una crítica cultural). His very powerful work includes books such as Homografías (Homographies, 1999) and Extravíos (Deviations, 2001), both in collaboration with Ricardo Llamas, in which the authors achieve a sharp and intelligent criticism of spaces, discourses, and realities of gay culture. Later, as a call to engagement and activism, Vidarte wrote Ética Marica. Proclamas libertarias para una militancia LGTBQ (Queer ethics: Libertarian proclamations for LGBTQ militancy, 2007), and, with David Córdoba and Javier Sáez, he edited Teoría queer (Queer theory, 2004). He died in 2008, at the age of 38, due to complications of HIV infection; yet another brilliant career and exemplary activism tragically truncated. In 2002, philosopher Beatriz Preciado published her essay Manifiesto contra-sexual (Counter-sexual manifesto), in which she uses a genealogy of the dildo to develop a denaturalizing analysis of sex in a discursive stream that crosses queer theory with cyborg feminism. This original and subversive book that marked her entry into Spanish LGBTQ non-fiction was followed by Testo Yonqui (2008) and Pornotopía. Arquitectura y sexualidad en “Playboy” durante la guerra fría (Pornotopia: An essay on Playboy’s architecture and biopolitics, 2010), finalist for the Anagrama Essay Prize. Preciado is the driving force behind theoretical but also political, drag king, postpornographic, and transgender initiatives. Also in 2002, Universitat de Barcelona professor and hispanist Rafael Mérida Jiménez compiled and translated key works by queer authors in the volume Sexualidades transgresoras. Una antología de estudios queer (Transgressive sexualities: A queer studies anthology), a book that allows us to highlight in passing the importance of the increasingly numerous translations of texts by key authors in LGBTQ thought, theory, and activism. Whether they are original texts or translations, all these texts sketch a new landscape for the twenty-first century, in which, we concur with Javier Sáez (2003), we are no longer simply talking about sexual orientation. Prostitution, pornography, rebelliousness, class struggle, immigration, disability, and subcultures like S&M, drag kings or the bear movement are realities … that must be understood through their own practices and discourses and their political potential. It is precisely a question of creating spaces of resistance that question heterocentric discourse and this type of “new gay order” which, from the academy to the capitalist market, is slowly establishing itself in Spain. If power is multiple and widespread, resistance to power must adopt the same form, and this also affects thought and writing.

From 2003 to 2005, with Paco Vidarte, Javier Sáez gave the UNED course “Introduction to Queer Theory” (“Introducción a la Teoría Queer”). He was the cofounder and a member of the editorial board of the critical-thinking journal Archipiélago and he has been directing hartza, the e-journal of queer culture, since 1995. He is also the author of an interesting analysis of the confluences and conflicts between queer theory and psychoanalysis (Teoría queer y psicoanálisis, 2004); with Sejo Carrascosa he published Por el culo. Políticas anales (Up the ass: Anal politics) (2011); and with David Córdoba and Paco Vidarte he edited Teoría queer. Políticas bolleras, maricas, trans, mestizas (Queer theory: Dyke, gay, trans, mixed politics, 2005). Along with Preciado, he has translated and written prologues to Judith Butler’s work (2004a), Monique Wittig’s (2005, with Paco Vidarte), and Judith Halberstam’s (2008).

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula599 Another historical activist, Jordi Petit, went through the last three decades of the LGBT movement in Spain in 25 años más: una perspectiva sobre el pasado, el presente y futuro del movimiento de gays, lesbianas, bisexuales y transexuales (25 more years: A perspective on the past, the present and the future of the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transsexual movement, 2003) and Vidas del arco iris. Historias del ambiente (Rainbow lives: Stories from the environment, 2004). Feminist and queer lesbian writing deserves special consideration. First, because it comes out of the additional trouble of the double silencing and double invisibility of lesbians, and secondly, because it is not only antiheterocentric but also antiandrocentric, a doubly radical and doubly instructive combination. We would like to give a nod to the LSD group (Fefa Vila, María José Belbel, Helena Cabello, Ana Carceller, and Carmen Navarrete, among other members of a heterogeneous group), formed in Madrid in 1993, and to The Gay Radical (La Radical Gai), surely two of the first queer activist groups in Spain. The LSDs (“lesbians, no doubt,” “lesbians with no destination,” “lesbians suspected of delirium,” “lesbians are divine” [“lesbianas sin duda,” “lesbianas sin destino,” “lesbianas sospechosas de delirio,” “lesbianas son divinas”]) published a lesbian/feminist/queer fanzine, Non Grata, from 1994 to 1998, a fact that allows us to make an essential, although extremely simple comment about the particular form of research that is artistic creation. From the mid-1990s, the cross between feminism and lesbian issues brought to the forefront the body as a battlefield, the reformulations of sex/gender identities, new gender technologies, the prosthetic implementation of body and identity, performativity, drag. Some of the artists and filmmakers who identified with these representations were Helena Cabello and Ana Carceller, and Azucena Vieites and Carmela García, to mention just a few with a long history in the fields of visual arts and performance, and more recent groups such as Corpus Deleicti, O.R.G.I.A, PostOp, Girlswholikeporno, Diana Pornoterrorista (Diana Torres), Medeak; and Cecilia Barriga in video and film. Returning to the field of lesbian academic scholarship, along with this article’s authors, Raquel Osborne, Professor of Sociology at UNED, was a pioneer. In 1989, she published Las mujeres en la encrucijada de la sexualidad. Una aproximación desde el feminismo (Women at the crossroads of sexuality: a feminist approach), and in 1993, La construcción sexual de la realidad (The sexual construction of reality). Since then, her research has dealt with female sexuality, prostitution, gender-based violence, and the history of lesbianism from Francoist Spain on. In 2006, she published two essential articles: “Entre el rosa y el violeta (Lesbianismo, feminismo y movimiento gay: relato de unos amores difíciles)” (“Between pink and violet. Lesbianism, feminism, and the Gay Movement: Story of a rocky relationship), for the e-journal Labrys, research which she continued in collaboration with Gracia Trujillo in (“Sessualità periferiche: una panoramica sulla produzione GLBT e queer in Spagna” (“Peripheral sexuality: an overview of GLBT and queer output in Spain”). And, in the historiographical sphere, she edited Memoria y sexualidad. Mujeres bajo el franquismo (Memory and sexuality: women under Francoism, 2011). Luz Sanfeliú, who won the sixth Victoria Kent Research Prize for Juego de damas. Aproximación histórica al homoerotismo femenino (Women Play: Historical approach to female homoeroticism, 1996), deserves mention for having been one of the earliest contributors to the field. The same can be said for Elvira Burgos, Professor of Philosophy at the Universidad de Zaragoza, and Spain’s biggest specialist in the work of Judith Butler, to whom she dedicates her magnificent book Qué cuenta como una vida. La pregunta por la libertad en Judith Butler (What counts as a life: Asking for freedom in Judith Butler, 2008); Burgos is also one of the key figures in queer theory within

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the Spanish academy for her work on corporal dissidence, transsexuality and transgender, and lesbian thought. Beatriz Gimeno, who was president of the FELG from 2003 to 2007, writes and publishes outside academia; she is the author of fiction and non-fiction works, among them Historia y análisis político del lesbianismo. La liberación de una generación (History and political analysis of lesbianism: the liberation of a generation, 2006). In the golden age of feminist/lesbian/queer research, the first decade of the 2000s, new researchers become involved, young activists who needed not risk their professional careers; among them are Gracia Trujillo, Professor of Sociology at the Universidad de Castilla La Mancha, with her 2009 book Treinta años de movilización lesbiana en el Estado español (1997/2007) (Desire and resistance: thirty years of lesbian action in Spain). She is a member of the Queer Working Group, which also includes activists and researchers like Carlos Bargueiras, Sejo Carrascosa, Silvia García Dauder, Encarnación Gutierrez, Raquel Olózaga, Esther Ortega, Juana Ramos, Mónica Redondo, Carmen Romero Bachiller, Javier Sáez and Fefa Vila; they edited the collective volume El eje del mal es heterosexual. Figuraciones, movimientos y prácticas queer (The axis of evil is heterosexual: Queer imaginings, movements and practices, 2005). Susana López Penedo authored El laberinto queer (The queer labyrinth, 2008); Aránzazu Hernández Piñero wrote Amar la fluidez (Loving fluidity, 2009). The literary essay is represented by the work of Elina Norandi, who coordinated Ellas y nosotras. Estudios lesbianos sobre literatura escrita en castellano (Them and us: lesbian studies on Spanish-Language literature, 2009), María Castrejón, author of Que me estoy muriendo de agua. Guía de narrativea lésbica española (I’m dying of water: guide to Spanish lesbian narrative, 2008), and Angie Simonis, author of Yo no soy esa que tú imaginas; el lesbianismo en la narrativa española del siglo XX (I’m not the woman you think I am: Lesbianism in twentieth-century Spanish narrative, 2009), who sadly passed away in 2013. Simonis also coordinated Educar en la diversidad (Educating in diversity, 2005) and Cultura, Homosexualidad y Homofobia (Culture, homosexuality and homophobia, 2007). Raquel Platero coordinated Lesbianas. Discursos y representaciones (Lesbians: Discourses and representations, 2008) and Cuerpos y sexualidades en la encrucijada (Bodies and sexualities at the crossroads, 2012). Two journals and the driving forces behind them also deserve special mention. In 1999, philosopher Javier Pérez Ugarte helped found Orientaciones. Revista de homosexualidades (Orientations: journal of homosexuality), which he directed until 2003. In his prolific research career, Javier Ugarte has published Sin derramamiento de sangre. Un ensayo sobre la homosexualidad (Without bloodshed: An essay on homosexuality, 2005), Las circunstancias obligan. Homoerotismo, identidad y resistencia (Circumstances dictate: homoeroticism, identity and resistance, 2011) and El placer que nunca muere. Sobre la regulación del homoerotismo en Occidente (The pleasure that never dies: On the regulation of homoeroticism in the West, 2014), and he edited Una discriminación universal. La homosexualidad bajo el franquismo y la transición (A universal discrimination: Homosexuality under Francoism and the Transition, 2008). Jaime del Val was the driving force behind Reverso, the first academic journal on queer theory in Spain. It began in 2000, and although it was short-lived in print, it had an intense impact as a representative of the LGBT and queer theory that was being developed in Spain. It continues as a digital debate forum. And finally came the glorious age of LGBTQ research. A key figure, due to the quantity and quality of her output (from outside academia, which shows that queer is the product of activism both inside and outside the academy) and due to the provocative, original, and amusing quality

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula601 of her writing is Itziar Ziga, who wrote Devenir perra (Becoming a bitch, 2009), Un zulo propio (A proper hideout, 2010), El género desordenado (Disordered gender, 2010), Glamur i resistència (Glamor and resistance, 2011) and Sexual Herria (Sexual Basque country, 2011). Within academia, for three years, Beatriz Suárez Briones coordinated a research group consisting of professors María Jesús Fariña of the Universidad de Vigo, Elvira Burgos and Arantza Hernández of Zaragoza, Gracia Trujillo of Castilla la Mancha, and Isabel Balza of Jaén. Together they worked on the book Las lesbianas (no) somos mujeres. En torno a Monique Wittig (Lesbians are (not) women: on Monique Wittig, 2013) and, a year later, on another volume edited by Suárez Briones, called Feminismos lesbianos y queer. Representación, visibilidad y políticas (Lesbian and queer feminisms: Representation, visibility and politics, 2014), which presents a series of theoretical texts and a wide range of lesbian and queer activists and activism in Spain. In the powerful stream of rewriting recent history, we should mention journalist Fernando Olmeda, who published El látigo y la pluma. Homosexuales en la España de Franco (The whip and the pen: Homosexuality in Francoist Spain, 2004); Manuel Ángel Soriano Gil, who gave us La marginación homosexual en la España de la Transición (Homosexual marginalization in Transition-Era Spain, 2005); Nathan Baidez Aparicio, author of Vagos, maleantes y homosexuales. La represión a los homosexuales durante el franquismo (Slackers, miscreants and gays: The repression of homosexuals during Francoism, 2007); Laurentino Vélez-Pelligrini, author of the well- documented and highly useful Sujetos de un contra-discurso. Una historia intelectual de la producción teórica gay, lesbiana y queer en España (Subjects of a counter-discourse: An intellectual history of gay, lesbian and queer theory in Spain, 2011); José Benito Eres and Carles Villagrasa, coordinators of Homosexuals i transsexuals: els altres represaliats i discriminats del franquisme (Homosexuals and trans-sexuals: The retaliated and discriminated against others of Francoism, 2008); Francisco Bernardo Alonso González, who has written on the gay rights movement; and Fernando Sáez, Ricard de la Rosa, and Víctor Manuel Bedolla. Other names we must not forget are José María Valcuende del Río, anthropologist Assumpta Sabuco, film historian Eduardo Nabal, Juan Carlos Alfeo, Francisco A. Zurian Hernández, Thais Morales, Paloma Fernández-Rasines, Matilde Albarracín Soto, Paloma Ruiz Román, Amparo Villar Saenz, Carmen G. Hernández Ojeda. We cannot forget that the glorious age is marked by the impact on theory and feminist activism of the transfeminist movement. It first blew onto the scene at the Universidad Internacional de Andalucía in Seville, in November 2010, at the meeting called Grassroots Movements: Transfeminism, Queer Feminism, Depathologization, Non-Binary Discourses (Movimientos en las bases: transfeminismos, feminismos queer, despatologización, discursos no binarios). We should also highlight the collective volume coordinated by Miriam Solá and Elena Urko (2013). In the Portuguese sphere, LGBTQ studies are at a very early stage. Properly speaking, they began to develop in the 2000s, although there is cause for optimism if we take into account the equality measures of European legislation in the past 15 years (Ferreira & Monteiro 2012). In other words, the better the legal situation, the better the academic situation. As in Spain, the political situation did not favor the formation of associations or any type of special interest groups until the mid-1970s. In Spain, some degree of organization took place in secret, but the same did not happen in Portugal, where, as Fernando Cascais (2006) indicates, “there is no organization of gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender movements until the Revolution of 25 April 1975.” The first LGBT association and other types of activities and movements would not arise until the 1990s

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(Cascais 2006): in 1990, a group of lesbians created Organa, which became Lilás in 1993 (both were educational and informational periodicals about rights that aimed to reach, above all, rural women; cfr. Santos 2006); in 1996, they created Korpus, which was published for a decade; in 1997, the Lisbon gay and lesbian film festival; and in 1999, the radio program Vidas alternativas (Alternative lives) and the bookstore Esquina Cor de Rosa (Pink corner), which stayed in business until 2006. The first works came from activists, who, at the time they produced them, risked their professional careers to bring awareness to a topic that was absent at the time, and therefore, never considered. This was research as a political attitude that sought to transform reality, extend rights, make visible the invisible, give voice to the unheard. Theory (academic) and militancy (activism) intertwined in the output of the pioneers. As Ana Cristina Santos showed, “gay and lesbian studies, and, later, queer studies, link academia and activism at the roots and in ways that are not always predictable […]. Hence, we can say that activism is the real test of reality and of queer studies” (2006). But the relationship between academia and activism is not always an easy one, as Ana Cristina Santos also affirms, but when it happens, it is productive. In accordance with that, the Jornadas Lésbicas festival was celebrated in 2000, driven by the Clube Safo in cooperation with the Higher Institute of Applied Psychology, and, in 2005, there was the first International Conference on Gay, Lesbian and Queer Studies called Cultures, Visibilities, Identities, co-organized by the Janela Indiscreta association, the Franco-Portuguese Institute, and the Center for Language and Communication Studies of the Universidade Nova de Lisboa. These initiatives would continue. In 2004, António Fernando Cascais (Universidade Nova de Lisboa) edited Indisciplinar a teoría. Estudos gay, lésbicos e queer (Indisciplinary theory: gay, lesbian and queer studies), where he collected essays from specialists in different areas in an attempt to bring awareness to and promote research in this field. In 2006, the Revista Crítica de Ciências Sociais (Critical journal of social sciences) dedicated the dossier of issue 76, coordinated by Ana Cristina Santos, to “Estudos queer: Identidades, contextos y acção colectiva” (“Queer Studies: Identities, Contexts and Collective Action”); and, in 2009, the journal Ex aequo devoted issue 20, coordinated by João Manuel de Oliveira (Centro de Investigación e Intervención Social, Universidade de Lisboa) and Conceição Nogueira (Universidade do Minho), to “Fazer o género: performatividades e abordagens queer” (“Doing Gender: Queer Performativities and Approaches”). They are not the only researchers who carry out their work within the fields of lesbian, gay, and queer studies within Portuguese research institutions and universities. A number of other names must also be mentioned: Ana Luisa Amaral of the Universidade de Oporto; Eduarda Ferrerira, researcher at the Center for Geography and Regional Planning Studies (Centro de Estudos de Geografia e Planeamento Regional) of the Universidade Nova de Lisboa, who has worked extensively on lesbian activism in Portugal (see especially her web mapping work “Lesbian collaborative web mapping: Disrupting heteronormativity in Portugal”) and who edits the lesbian e-journal LES online with Maria João Silva; Ana Maria Brandão, sociologist and professor at the Universidade do Minho, whose doctoral dissertation, E se tu fosses um rapaz? Homo-erotismo feminino e construção social da identidade (And if you were a boy? Female homo-eroticism and the social construction of identity) was published in 2010; and Anabela Rocha, who defended her dissertation Outro gênero de corpos. O materialismo tecnológico fisicalista de Beatriz Preciado (Another gender of bodies. Beatriz Preciado’s physical technological materialism) in March 2012.

Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula603 Lastly, equality measures and an atmosphere of visibility even in academia materialized with the important event of the launch of a Postgraduate Program in LGBT Studies at the School of Social Sciences and Humanities at the Instituto Universitario de Lisboa in 2011–2012, whose goal, as its webpage indicates, was to support with scientific knowledge intervention in the struggle against homophobia and transphobia and the implementation of measures and policies for equality mainstreaming. We would like to close this panorama of feminist, gender, and LGBTQ studies on the Iberian Peninsula, which has obviously been limited and macroscopic (leaving out individuals and research groups that a more developed study would include), by updating the sentence that closes the entry on Amazons in Monique Wittig and Sande Zeig’s Brouillon pour un dictionnaire des amantes (Lesbian peoples: material for a dictionary): It is to the warriors throughout the ages that we owe our entry into the glorious age. Blessed be.1

1.

“Es a las amazonas de todos los tiempos a quienes debemos haber podido entrar en la edad de gloria. Benditas sean” (Wittig & Zeig 1981, 14).

Epilogue A view from Basque literature The historian who mistook his literature for an island Frederik Verbeke The encounter between Basque studies and comparative literature studies in the Iberian Peninsula proves to be beneficial and stimulating to both. The two volumes of the present Comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula and the groundbreaking research collaboration on which they are based not only turn out to be fundamental to the understanding of the Iberian Peninsula as a complex and dynamic framework of interliterary relations, they are also expected to serve as an important reference and a milestone for research on Basque literature. The framework created by this project, mapping the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula and their ­interliterary relations from a comparative viewpoint and challenging the foundations of national literatures by paying attention to phenomena silenced and marginalized by nationallybased historiographies, has generated interesting contributions concerning the literatures in the Basque Country. The varied range and outstanding quality of the papers constitute a promising future for Basque studies. If Basque literature, devoted to its self-definition as a “small” literature and often imagined through the geo-symbol of an island (Domínguez 2010, 109–12), has long remained imperceptible on the Peninsular (and continental) literary map, the studies gathered by this project give an interesting response, allow a greater visibility, and create new perspectives. On the other hand, the inclusion of Basque case studies has also shown to be inspiring for the project itself, questioning the geographical pertinence and challenging other features of its paradigm. In this concluding section, let us first briefly recall the main contributions concerning Basque literature and then, secondly, emphasize their importance and relevance, as well as advance some research topics left out of the present history. References to Basque literature pop up from the first chapters through the last. In the opening section of the first volume, about discourses on Iberian literary history, both Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza and César Domínguez, two of the general editors, devote part of their chapters to the Basque Country. In “The European horizon of Peninsular literary historiographical discourses,” Fernando Cabo (2010) explores some of the key constituents of Peninsular historiographical discourse on literature from a comparative perspective, considering the European context under which this discourse has developed since its origins in the eighteenth century. At the end of his explorations, he briefly focuses attention on the historiography of Basque literature, emphasizing, among other features, its late appearance, the implementation of a philological bias, the feeling of uniqueness, the difficulty of positioning Basque literature within a geo-literary European framework, the idea of delay with respect to European literature, and, more recently, the insistence on trying to insert Basque into a international scheme. After Fernando Cabo’s short overview, César Domínguez deepens and broadens the analysis of discourses on Basque literary history in one of the sections of his contribution entitled “Historiography and the geo-literary doi 10.1075/chlel.29.48ver © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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imaginary. The Iberian Peninsula: Between Lebensraum and espace vécu.” In this remarkable piece of research, opening up a hitherto unexplored field of study, Domínguez examines the geographical imaginaries that feed the historiographical discourses of the Iberian Peninsula’s literatures. He illustrates “the modalities according to which historians have conceived the Iberian territory” and shows “the implications that those modalities can have for the conceptualization of literatures” (2010, 69). In the section “Literary chronicles from Liliput: ‘One knows what it means to be small’” (102–16), he sheds an interesting light on the meta-geographical imaginary that dominates discourses on Basque literature and, more precisely, on the devotion of Basque literature to its self-definition as a “small” literature. According to Domínguez, Basque historiography made “spatial limitation into a sign of identity for its literature” (109), using a conception of small literature that privileges territorialization, in contrast to the highly deterritorialized use of it in Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari (1986). Furthermore, Basque historiography maximized this territorialization by developing the meta-geography of insularity, an insular isolation that is applied to both the Basque language and its literature. The identification of Basque literature with writing in Euskara is one of the linguistic implications of this (self-)definition of Basque literature through the geo-symbol of an island. Despite the insular image, an interliterary push can be observed in the latest Basque historiography, highlighting the connections of Basque literature with an international context, inscribing it into European interliterary networks, measuring “its power with neighboring continents in an attempt at cosmopolitanism” (Domínguez 2010, 116). In “Bilbao and the literary system in the Basque Country,” Jon Kortazar, emphasizing the bilingual or diglossic character of the city of Bilbao and its important role in Basque literary production, sets out a short historical overview of the evolution of the literary traditions in Castilian (and in the Bilbaoan dialect) and in Basque, from a comparative and multilingual perspective. He describes the complex relationships between the two main “systems” of Bilbao’s literary space, how they collide with each other and how they enrich each other, as shown by cultural initiatives that have united writers in both languages. In “Basque as a literary language,” Karmele Rotaetxe starts her paper with a short description of the current social situation of the Basque language, which “only exists in a diglossic situation” (2010, 447), and then summarizes the history of Basque as a literary language, dividing it into two parts with the late sixties, which marked a great improvement for the Basque language, as a moment of change. According to Ángel López García (2010, 331), Karmele Rotaetxe’s description of Basque texts exemplifies a “literary disjoint diglossia,” where two languages (influential/influenced) are alternately brought together and moved apart. In the Basque Country, the Spanish language always remains in the background, whereas the practitioners of Euskara, the influenced language, try to move beyond the sphere of Spanish influence. In the second volume, three chapters are almost entirely devoted to Basque literature. In “Vulnerability and the literary imagination in the Basque context,” Annabel Martín analyzes the works of Julia Otxoa, Bernardo Atxaga, and Luisa Etxenike, three contemporary Basque authors, convinced that the arts “can offer a new vocabulary for social reconciliation in the Basque Country.” Her essay, based on a comparative approach and included in the section dedicated to the study of images and stereotypes of national identity, reflects the cultural diversity and complexity of the Basque context. Far away from the Basque nationalist imaginary and their “heroic identitarian narratives,” these writers, according to Martín, have “best imagined a more humble and less wounded society,” broadened our horizons, and helped rethink identity and its

A view from Basque literature607 chimeras. Breaking barriers and building bridges, they help Basque society, dominated so far by “identitarian models lacking in self-awareness and critique,” discover and recognize the other or the “foreigner” in itself. In “The Atlantic-Iberian Enlightenment: On the imperial-colonial and Morisco-Basque mediations of the Spanish Enlightenment,” Joseba Gabilondo sheds new light on the study of the Spanish Enlightenment. He shows the mistake of adopting an ahistorical, non-imperialist, continental Spanish state as the standpoint from which to analyze the Enlightenment, and problematizes the nationalist idea of a single, homogeneous enlightened Peninsula. Instead of overlooking any extra-Peninsular condition, he reframes the Iberian Peninsula in an imperialistAtlantic-colonial framework and shows the existence of two Iberian “Enlightenments” that do not share the same geography-history: an imperialist-subaltern Enlightenment, appropriated by the aristocracy under the form of majismo, and a colonial-Atlantic Enlightenment, formed from the relations between the Peninsula, mainly the Basque Country, and the American colonies. Gabilondo’s colonial and Atlantic geopolitical perspective does not only allow us to reconsider the canonical approach to the Enlightenment and the nationalist idea of a “(failed) Spanish Enlightenment,” but his relocation of a double extra-Spanish Enlightenment also serves to redefine and rethink the European Enlightenment by highlighting the colonial and imperialist reality that questions Eurocentric discourses on Enlightenment. In “The recent systemic repositioning of literature in the French Basque Country: Origins of a literary subfield,” Ur Apalategi describes how the Basque literature of Iparralde, in the Northern (or French) Basque Country, shifted from the center to the periphery of the Basque literary system. The low level of industrialization and urban modernization, the increase of French patriotism after World War I, the extra-literary support and aid the Basque language receives in Hegoalde, the Southern (or Spanish) Basque Country, and the absence of institutions to spread euskara batua (standardized Basque) among Iparralde’s habitants figure among the causes of the progressive marginalization of the Basque literature of Iparralde. Apalategi’s essay analyzes the different and sometimes opposing strategies that writers of Iparralde, such as Daniel Landart, Itxaro Borda, or Aurelia Arkotxa, have used during the last decades to face their peripheral position. Some of them write exclusively for the readers of Iparralde, others aim to reach all readers in the Basque literary system and gain visibility in the new literary center. Some authors who are originally peripheral assimilate the literary and linguistic characteristics of the literary system’s center or of the center of their own subsystem. Besides the aforementioned case studies, other researchers and collaborators on the project have paid attention to the Basque Country, often offering valuable and interesting observations. In the first volume, Michael Ugarte (2010) focuses on the Basque writers of the Generation of 1898 — Miguel de Unamuno, Pío Baroja, and Ramiro de Maeztu — when discussing, in an essay titled “Empires waxing and waning: Castile, Spain and American exceptionalism,” the metonymic identification of Castile with Spain. In the introduction to “Multilingualism and literature in the Iberian Peninsula,” Ángel López García (2010) pays special attention to the Basque Country when treating the interlinguistic and intercultural dimension of the Peninsula, just as Roger Wright (2010) takes the Basque Country into account in his essay “Bilingualism and diglossia in Medieval Iberia (350–1350).” In “Ideology and image of Peninsular languages in Spanish literature,” Fernando Romo Feito (2010) offers an analysis of the images of the Peninsular languages, such as Basque, as they appear in the Spanish literary canon. In the section “Dimensions of

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orality,” which undertakes the comparative study of several manifestations of oral literature in the Iberian Peninsula in different languages, the Basque Country is briefly highlighted in several chapters, such as, for example, José Luis Forneiro’s essay “Linguistic borders and oral transmission” (2010) or José Manuel Pedrosa’s “Iberian traditions of international folktale” (2010). In the last section, “Temporal frames and literary (inter-)systems,” José-Carlos Mainer (2010), in “The dialogue of Iberian literary nationalisms (1900–50),” devotes some pages to the Basque Country and to the Iberianism of Unamuno. In the second volume, the second section, dedicated to genres, offers some observations about Basque theatre in “The paths of a national idea of theatre in the Iberian Peninsula” by José Camões and Maria João Brilhante; about autobiographical literature in the Spanish Basque Country in “Writing of the self. Iberian diary writing” by Enric Bou and Heike Scharm; and about the essay in Enric Bou and Ángel Otero-Blanco’s “The essay.” In most of these contributions no attention is paid to literary production in the Basque language. However, in “The phenomenon of the bestseller in the Iberia Peninsula,” published in the section on “Popular culture and cultural studies,” David Viñas Piquer focuses on best-sellers and so-called consumer literature written in Euskara, such as Kutsidazu bidea, Ixabel written by Joxean Sagastizabal, or the works of Jon Arretxe and Jasone Osoro. In the same section, some short references to Basque culture pop also up in María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar’s contribution, “‘Light changes the placement of things’: Immigration, gender, and resistance in hip-hop music”; in Joan-Elies Adell’s essay “The relationship between popular contemporary music and literature: some examples from the Iberian Peninsula”; and in Concepción Cascajosa Virino’s “Television in Spain and Portugal: From the public monopoly to the new transmedia environment.” In “Feminist, gender and LGBTQ studies in the Iberian Peninsula. A comparative panorama,” María Jesús Fariña Busto and Beatriz Suárez Briones pay attention to the research done in women’s and gender studies at the University of the Basque Country and to Itziar Ziga’s contributions to LGBTQ research. The studies gathered by this project offer interesting new perspectives to spark new ways of inquiry within Basque studies and lead to a paradigm shift. Although the historiography of Basque literature appeared very late — “there was no true historiographic tradition until the 1960s” (Cabo Aseguinolaza 2010, 47) — most historiographers and scholars did not try to keep aloof from the romantic “national” paradigm of one territory, one nation, one language, one literature, that has dominated the surrounding literary systems since the nineteenth century. Driven by mimetic desire and rivalry, they easily adopted the dominant historical discourses and their national model. Caught in an insular imaginary (Domínguez 2010, 109–12), they placed emphasis almost exclusively on literature written in Euskara, enclosing the Basque cultural production into a homogeneous, monolingual, and national framework, despite awareness of the complexity of the Basque multilingual society raised by other disciplines (just think about all the (socio)linguistic research done in the Basque Country on bilingualism, language contact, diglossia, etc.). Why should the Basque literary system be provided with a literary history based on the model of traditional Spanish or French historical discourses? Why accept a national historiographical discourse based on monolingual ideologies, when the society you’re describing is extremely multilingual (all authors writing in Basque are bilingual)? It would only lead to anachronistic views and turn out to be poorly suited to the study of literary phenomena and relationships in multilingual contexts like the Basque Country. Wouldn’t it be more suitable if heterogeneity was not considered as a handicap or an obstacle, but converted into an asset? If the Basque Country

A view from Basque literature609 was regarded as an interesting starting point for the creation of new paradigms and for getting new insights in the problematic ways in which the concepts of “culture” and “literature” are connected to “language,” “territory,” and “nation” in multilingual societies? Even if, according to Jon Kortazar, “the perspective of current researchers is highly colored by nationalist views” (2010, 222), attempts to overcome the institutionalized illusion of a unified and homogeneous national literary culture and to shift toward another kind of discourse are becoming more and more frequent in recent research. The contributions of the present project, as well as those of the project which preceded it (Abuín González & Tarrío Varela 2004), are just some examples to which others could be added. Jon Kortazar uses comparatist parameters to approach Basque literature in many of his works, convinced as he is that “the only way to speak about Basque literature” is by focusing on “its connection with bigger literary movements” (1998, 25), which remembers Luis (Koldo) Michelena’s statement that “one cannot write a history of Basque literature without paying equal attention to the Spanish and French territories” (1960, 16–17). Joseba Gabilondo, doing research on Basque literature from a post-national perspective, encompassing “all the literature written by the Basques in all their languages” (2013a & 2006), or Ur Apalategi (2000 & 2013), applying a systemic perspective and Bourdieu’s theory of fields to Basque literature, are two other researchers whose commendable efforts are opening up new perspectives, as evidenced by their contributions to the present project. Many other researchers could be added, from Jesús María Lasagabaster whose Literaturas de los vascos (Literatures of the Basques, 2002) pays attention to Basque literatures written in Spanish and in Euskara, and Mari José Olaziregi who edited a Basque literary history (2013) including chapters on translations and literatures written by Basque writers in other languages, to the new generation of researchers such as Elizabete Manterola Agirrezabalaga (2014) or Manu Lopez Gaseni (2000 & 2005), whose research is getting a better grip on the problem of interliterary contacts by tackling the questions of translation and self-translation, a largely neglected area in Basque studies. Finally, a special mention must be made of the LAIDA research team which, under the direction of Jon Kortazar, has been exploring issues connected to literature and identity from a perspective based on polysystem theory and cultural studies since 2003. Although Basque literature is a very rich field of research, despite its smallness, it still remains largely unexplored. It is clear that the aforementioned frameworks and research models should guide that research, since they help to understand the Basque Country as a complex network of multilingual and interliterary relationships, where the coexistence of languages and cultures cannot be divided into a simple juxtaposition of monolingual, static, and homogeneous entities. The claim to (re)write literary history focusing on hybridity, interculturality, and heterogeneity, avoiding the homogeneous, static, and nationalistic paradigm in which references to multilingual and intercultural backgrounds are silenced and marginalized, is not new, but it is still worthwhile, and sometimes even necessary, to remind ourselves of it (Lambert 2004, 419). “Arts can offer a new vocabulary for social reconciliation in the Basque Country,” observes Annabel Martín in her contribution to this project; discourses on arts can do this as well. A greater consciousness of the interactions between the different linguistic and cultural groups helps to recognize alterity as inherently within (Levinas 1969), to highlight “foreignness” within the self, and to get a better insight into heterogeneity at different levels, from the crucible of languages and cultures hidden behind apparently monolingual texts and the multilingual and intercultural backgrounds of their authors, to the coexistence and interactions of languages, literatures, and cultures in the cities, in

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the regions, and far beyond. Indeed, research on the Basque Country (and so many other societies where multilingualism is and has been more visible) can provide an interesting starting point, an interesting laboratory for the creation of research models for analyzing the intercultural and multilingual complexity of our globalized world, a “polyspheric” world, in which discreet and multipurpose rational games need to teach us to live with a changing multiplicity of perspectives and to do without the chimera of the unique and sovereign point of view (Sloterdijk 2003, 73 & 78). Much of what is happening worldwide in the age of globalization, when “culture is being fractured and ruptured and hybridized everywhere” (Tymoczko 1999, 289), citizenship is becoming post-national and denationalized (Sassen 2002), and the “era of monosphere” — the era of the unique and all embracing circle of unity — has disappeared, has happened before in the more “peripheral” societies. The traditional dominating cultural systems are experiencing what “minority” or “small” cultures have been experiencing for many centuries. They have much to learn from the “peripheral” and multilingual societies. A glance at the Basque Country not only appeals to the construction of a heterogeneous and dynamic self-image, it also invites a critical revision of the homogeneous, monolingual, and static self-image that has dominated identity constructions and literary history for so long in the dominant Western cultures, especially since the rise of nationalism (B. Anderson 1983 & Leerssen 1999). Joseba Gabilondo’s investigations are a clear example. By doing research on Basque literature, among others (Gabilondo 2009), he succeeds in highlighting the “Spanish nationalist excess” and in putting limits to it by proposing a postnational and decolonial approach to Spanish and Iberian Studies (2013b). To conclude, let’s remember Bernardo Atxaga’s literary metaphor of “Euskal Hiria” (the Basque city). Playing on the assonance between “Euskal Hiria” (the Basque city) and “Euskal Herria” (the Basque Country), the Basque writer “points to the city as the hope for the Basque Country,” considering that “the multiple identities who make up the city provide a model for the Basque Country to follow” (Davies 2012, 65). The comparative approach as proposed by the present project can bring us closer to Atxaga’s utopia. His literary metaphor offers a model that can also be useful for research on Basque literature or, more precisely, on the multiple literatures that make up the so-called Basque city, a city to be considered, not as a point of a national territory, but as a node of an interurban network (Domínguez 2007a, 182), or even as a node of a cross-border global network, a “global city” (Sassen 1991). So, instead of (mis)taking the Basque Country for an island, it would perhaps be more stimulating and more suitable if we (mis)take it for a city.

A view from Catalan literature Iberian studies as comparative literature in thick description mode Joan Ramon Resina That the study of Iberian literatures is inherently comparative should be obvious to anyone. But despite this evidence, the proposition that Iberian studies is a modality of comparative literature involves a degree of paradox — a contrast between a demarcated frame of analysis and an unlimited one, which may account for the fact that, as soon as an Iberian studies alternative to single-language literary studies was formulated some two decades ago, it was assailed in the name of “bigger,” “broader,” or “more inclusive” categories. In this brief essay, I will try to elucidate the two aspects of the paradigm just mentioned: its intrinsic comparativeness and its concern with the local and the particular in the teeth of ever more abstract, idealized, and looser criteria and principles of organization. At the outset, however, I would like to make a couple of political observations, so as to get this obtrusive yet inevitable aspect of academic debate out of the way without getting bogged down in futile polemics. Most disciplinary objections to Iberian studies (and there are really no others) start from the assumption that this paradigm circumscribes the literary field to an exclusive horizon of analysis. Ignoring the complexities of the Iberian cultural map, some people stress the geographic limitations of Iberian studies when compared to more sweeping concepts, such as transatlantic studies, literature of the Americas, or world literature. Each of these “contending” paradigms presents problems of its own, not least their mounting abstraction, or the fact that increasing the opening of the lens entails loss of definition. And they are hardly free from metadisciplinary debate. But the point is not that one paradigm is superior to the rest, but rather that each paradigm is, like any tool, serviceable for certain operations and not for others. Sometimes the objections are of an altogether different nature: they are political and displace the question of literary mapping to suit the critic’s political priorities. This type of objector tends to attribute heteronomous motivations to the formalized study of interliterary relations among traditions with a history of social and cultural interconnectedness. In the wake of postmodernism, we take for granted the premise that everything is political, especially suspecting denials of ulterior political intention. Thus we find it hard to accept that politics is not always more pervasive for being implicit, and that to acknowledge the political bias inherent in every outlook does not necessarily keep us from self-delusion. Politicizing every thought on the pretext that language is social does not make the thought process more honest. It makes it less honest if the inevitability of bias, which is the very condition of reflection, is taken as license to be unabashedly ideological. The postmodern dogma that politics taints all human action is startlingly close to the Augustinian doctrine of original sin. To be sure, even something as unworldly as primitive Christianity had political implications — the Sermon of the Mount, give Caesar what belongs to Caesar, etc. As soon as the new faith’s communities sprouted throughout the Mediterranean, the Christian religion developed the rudiments of a political function, which became overt on a grand scale when Constantine and above all Theodosius adopted it as state religion. It would survive the fall of the Roman doi 10.1075/chlel.29.49res © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Empire and emerge as the focus of Western power during the Middle Ages. But would it capture the essence of Christianity to assimilate the notion of the Kingdom to the rule of Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor? Was this the vision that Jesus sought to convey with the help of parables? Do we not risk loss of meaning when we conflate the political and the poetical? In various sophisticated ways, this is what literary criticism has been doing for some time. Literary history has long ceased to be concerned with aesthetics; as a consequence it can no longer claim to trace in texts (so-called literary “artifacts”) the purposeless purpose that Kant discerned in aesthetic objects. And yet, although neither the contemplation of beauty nor the analysis of artistic technique inspires literary studies any longer, to privilege political over cognitive purposes is ultimately self-defeating. Cognition is concerned with identifying and re-presenting, taking stock and evaluating; with reliably mapping the convoluted nodes and connections of the literary field at the scale appropriate to the realities under consideration. This is not to say that the critic must remain enclosed in a paradigm. Like Ishmael in Melville’s classic novel, it is perfectly acceptable, even wise, to attend Father Mapple’s sermon at the Whaleman’s Chapel and right after join in Queequeg’s pagan rites at the Spouter Inn. It is reasonable to extract from cultural monotheism whatever it contains that is useful and then engage in comparatism to one’s heart’s content. In fact, nothing else is plausible, unless one prefers to start from the abstract spirit of cetology and never encounter Moby Dick. Then there are those who refuse sleeping next to a Queequeg on the pretext that the bed is too small or the tattooed native an unsuitable bedfellow. To people of such finicky nature I have nothing to say, except to remind them of Ishmael’s reflection that it is “better [to] sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian” (1930, 34). Others, more popish than the Pope, condemn Queequeg for not being cannibal enough, i.e. for refusing to swallow Christianity and reincarnating as a Christian. In short, for keeping an attachment to his aboriginal culture. Aggressive hybridity leads some critics to denounce what they imagine as monolingual tendencies in all Iberian cultures, but all they do in effect is combat the conditions of pluralism. Our brave postmodernists despise as local, peripheral, and ultimately as “nationalist” those cultures that bear the hieroglyphs of their origins on their skins, faulting them for allegedly “replicating” the intolerance of the dominant sect. Turning the critique of monoculturalism against cultures that have been ravaged by it is to misapply general notions without regard for context or circumstance. Taken-for-granted power relations between Iberian cultures (manifest in the assumption of Castilian as default inter-Iberian language of communication) reveal themselves in the assimilation of historicism, that is to say, the awareness of cultures’ rootedness, to conservatism. What “replicating” actually refers to in such inversion of the true relations of power is the natives’ refusal to be cannibalized, their spontaneous tendency to obey Spinoza’s proposition 6 in part III of the Ethics, namely that “everything in so far as it is in itself endeavors to persist in its own being” (1963, 91). One might as well label Queequeg a conservative. If that seems absurd, perhaps it is no more so than considering those writers who write in their native languages as disingenuous Iberianists. Certainly it is no more absurd than questioning the validity of literary systems in the discriminated languages on the pretext that such systems are imposed on good old Christians. Academic protocol forces us to countenance such opinions with equanimity. Pressed on this issue, I have no difficulty admitting that Ahab is the truly modern character in the novel, but

A view from Catalan literature613 then one must bear in mind that, far from solving the mystery of the white beast, he is intent on killing it. The difficulty with reconfiguring a long-standing tradition is that the new combination of objects and the relations among them will continue to be perceived and talked about in terms of the old paradigm for some time. These are the only terms that make sense to people who were educated in it. Only after some individuals have been educated in the reconfigured paradigm, will the terms arise that make it possible to recognize the unique features of the new intellectual climate. Having conceded the part that politics plays in delimiting a field of study, I can now turn my attention to my opening statement that Iberian Studies is a fundamental, if unacknowledged, province of comparative literature. This seems a straightforward contention, which I will not belabor. I will just note briefly that comparative literature is an outgrowth of the nineteenth-century’s interest in the history of religions. Long before then, travelers had discovered that widely different religions could exist and function autonomously, but it was in this century that, through the work of colonial anthropologists, beliefs and rituals previously considered superstitious came to be understood as systems of cultural practices. The shift from one single belief system to a broader conception of religious diversity with common roots in a distant past or having arisen in response to similar needs of social integration was replicated in the newly found interest in non-classic literatures and mythologies, reflected in Herder’s theory about the relation between poetry and cultural practices in Über die Würkung der Dichtkunst auf die Sitten der Völker in alten und neuen Zeiten (On the effect of poetic art on the ethics of peoples in ancient and modern times, 1778). Although comparative literature was at first primarily an intra-European affair, it built on the experience of unfamiliarity. In the eighteenth century the gulf between the cultures of the Latin South and those of the Germanic north was a great deal wider than it is today. Strangeness was not confined to the landscapes of Mignon’s nostalgic “das Land wo die Zitronen blühn” in Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre (1950a, 145). One need only recall Goethe’s apprehension about the Catholicism of Italians in Italienische Reise (1950b, 123) to grasp the importance that educated classes in the nineteenth century accorded knowledge of other European languages and their literatures. Inter-linguistic curiosity seems to have increased as European peoples were emphasizing their national identities and developing them into political structures. It appears to intensify in the same proportion as the perception of their differences expanded. This correlation would explain why early comparatists were interested above all in national literatures. Herder’s idea that the existence of a language pointed to the presence of a poetic tradition and hence of a nationality with its own customs, was altered and in some way subverted by other romantic thinkers, such as Hegel, who from the existence of a cultural nationality (namely the German) inferred the necessity of a state. In this fashion, the state culture supplanted the livelier, more diverse idea of national culture that Herder predicated to every linguistic community. This is how the building blocks of comparative literature came to be the state cultures of the larger, more influential Western nationalities: the French, the English, the German, the Italian, and eventually the Spanish and the Russian. Even then the great religious divide of the Reformation endured in the guise of modernity: the northern, Germanic peoples and the southern, neo-Latin ones, whom Fichte faulted for speaking languages whose roots they no longer understood — in effect, for lacking a mother tongue (1968, 58) and being, as a consequence, able to develop “nothing more than an intellectual view of things, without taking hold of life and shaping

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it differently” (80). The world historical split between a reformed North capable of revolutionizing reality and a counter-reformist South locked inside tradition by the hold of dogma passed over into the clash between romanticism and classicism. In turn, these aesthetic opposites transmuted into the antagonism between Kultur and Civilisation, as represented by Germany and France, traditional contenders for Central European hegemony. But hostility binds the antagonists in reciprocal scrutiny. This mutuality of attention explains why German Romanisten were among the founders of comparative literature and why they privileged French literature over the other literatures of Southern Europe. The brilliant competitor to the South fascinated and intimidated with its literary splendor. French writers were models to admire but also risks to avoid in the search for German national character. Consequently, these writers occupied center stage in the German Romanistik until World War II. On the eve of the war, some Romanisten veered away from French subjects, as if the literary construction of Europe had suddenly come to a halt and not all national traditions were henceforth worthy of attention. This reorientation is evident in Karl Vossler’s collection of essays, Aus der romanischen Welt, first published in 1940 and followed by an expanded edition in 1948. From this compendium, spanning decades of Vossler’s work, it is possible to see how the early concentration on French literary subjects tapers out in the years preceding World War II, whereas Vossler’s interest in Spanish (i.e. Castilian) subjects dates from the final years of the Weimar Republic (Lope de Vega und sein Zeitalter appeared in 1932) and remains central to his work until his death in 1949 — his Poesie der einsamkeit in Spanien appeared posthumously in 1950. A similar, though more circumspect reorientation, can be observed in Ernst Robert Curtius, whose faith in the spiritual cooperation between the French and German elites was temporarily checked by the tensions arising from the vindictive treaty France inflicted on Germany at Versailles. Curtius had looked for such a cross-border coalition in order to hinder Germany’s proclivity to look to the East (that is, to Soviet Russia) for inspiration by opposing to it the legacy of Latin humanism. In the twenties, Curtius began to search for a substitute to the leadership role he had previously assigned to France, and although Italy was the obvious candidate, given the role accorded to Christian humanism in this scheme, he considered Spain a clearer exponent of the Latin-Mediterranean spirit. Or so he assured José Ortega y Gasset in a letter dated March 12, 1924 (Martí Monterde 2012, 44). But Curtius did not undergo the radical conversion that turned Vossler into a nearly exclusive Hispanist late in life. He published a book on Balzac one year before his letter to Ortega, and the Kritische Essays zur europäischen Literatur (1954) featured essays on Cocteau and on Friedrich Schlegel and France, which are roughly contemporaneous with essays on Unamuno, Ortega y Gasset, and Pérez de Ayala. In the important essay on Schlegel, dated significantly in 1932, Curtius quotes Schlegel’s assertion that “the true Europe must still emerge,” and observes: “Today we still have not come any further” (91; unless otherwise indicated, the translation of citations is mine). Other Romanisten, such as Leo Spitzer, Erich Auerbach, Victor Klemperer, Werner Krauss, and Helmut Hatzfeld, ranged over a multilingual area considered as a unity in diversity. Not only did they work comparatively, but they were aware that the geographically circumscribed space that framed their discipline was a space of diverse cultural exchanges. And although their praxis did not extend to the whole of that area, in theory — in the event, philologically — they did not narrow the scope of the discipline to only the literatures of nation states. As a matter of course, Romanisten became acquainted with the lyric of the troubadours, considered foundational

A view from Catalan literature615 to European vernacular literature. And although other literatures of Southern Europe, such as the Catalan, Galician, and Portuguese were generally overlooked, despite the early work of non-­academic Romanist Johannes Fastenrath — author, among other works, of Catalanische Troubadoure der Gegenwart (1890) — the principle of inter-linguistic connections among related yet autonomous literatures was put firmly in place. Methodologically, Romanistik was a modality of Komparatistik, laying out a field of linguistically and historically motivated comparisons. As long as Romance studies remained an integrated discipline, it foregrounded the task of tracing a complex network of diverse traditions unified by a common linguistic matrix and shared cultural influences. No intrinsic reason prevented this complexity from expanding the discipline internally, the way that physics, after studying the atom as the minimal unit of matter, discovered the brave new world of subatomic particles. Iberian studies is to Romance studies what the enhanced nuclear physics is to traditional physics: a probing of substrate literary pulsations revealing the structure of literary histories formerly considered minimal units of scholarly investigation. The fact that Romanistik eventually split along linguistic boundaries to adapt to late twentieth century patterns of specialization in the sciences is no proof of progress. On the contrary, imbalance between the analytic and the synthetic aims posited by the founders of Romance studies blurred the relational aspects of culture, and loss of focus hampers the grasp of literature’s intercultural dynamic. Failure to develop Iberian studies within the framework of Romance studies was neither accidental nor inevitable. There were historical reasons for the way things happened, but the potential was always there, ready to be tapped even after the Romance Gestalt splintered into national and postcolonial segments. Having substantiated my initial claim that Iberian studies is intrinsically comparative and thus a subset of comparative literature, I will now turn to my second claim, namely that the relation between Iberian studies and comparative literature is based on a foundational paradox. We may call this the romantic paradox. Why romantic? Because we owe recognition of the linguistic foundation of human consciousness and the appreciation of linguistic plurality to romanticism. They are its greatest legacy. Both precepts are laid out in Herder’s Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit (Ideas on the philosophy of the history of mankind, 1784), where we can read: “What the spirit of Mankind ever contrived, what the wise men of prehistoric times thought, comes to me, when Providence grants it, only through language. Through language is my thinking soul bound to the soul of the first and perhaps of the last thinking person. In short, language is the character of our reason, through which it alone obtains form and propagates itself ” (1963, 247). Reason, for Herder, was not the disembodied abstraction of Cartesian thought. To find orientation in life, Herder counted on the senses. “He who does not trust his senses is a fool and must become an empty speculator” (251). As providers of space-time determination for the mind, the senses impinge on the conditions of language use and the uses of language; hence the bewildering variety of idioms. Appreciation of linguistic diversity led Herder to propose the comparative study of language, which he considered “the most beautiful attempt at the history and plural characteristic of the human mind and the human heart”, since in each language “are the mind of a people and its character shaped” (252). Herder’s influence on Sturm und Drang sparked that movement’s reexamination of literary values. It not only inspired enthusiasm for the poetry of the Celtic North — with the unguarded admiration of the Ossian epic cycle — but also the apotheosis of the barbaric Shakespeare and

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the canonization of Cervantes and Calderón, Castilian authors whose esteem had fallen with the ascendancy of French classicism. Thus, while romanticism expanded literary prestige beyond the confines of the classic tradition and laid the groundwork for comparatism by appreciating the differences among the various traditions, it also created the conditions for the study of national literatures. It did so by presenting literature as a reflection of the growth of the national spirit. The rise of Castilian literature in romantic estimation had much to do with its distance from the classic tradition, which the French had managed to impose as an expression of Europeanness. Thus Friedrich Schlegel praised the “great national value” of Castilian literature, pointing out Spain’s peculiar position among European nations (Briesemeister 1984, 113). That peculiarity was then embraced by nationalist intellectuals like Menéndez Pelayo, Ganivet, Unamuno, Menéndez Pidal, Ortega y Gasset, and Américo Castro, all major influences on the study and conception of “Spanish” literature. This unintended consequence of the romantic vindication of plurality underlies the paradoxical kinship of Iberian studies to comparative literature. For it is paradoxical that a comparative paradigm such as Iberian studies should have emerged within the institutional bounds of a time-honored national tradition, that of Spanish literature. Spanish is a particularist discipline that remains fiercely monolingual. That the many could emerge from the one involves a paradox that is creative and restorative at once. Creative, because Iberian studies gives rise to a new field of scholarly endeavor; restorative, because by transcending linguistic particularism, it harks back to the comparative origins of modern literature. Redressing the nationalist consequences of the romantic revolt against classicism, the new paradigm reinstates the relational plurality from which national literatures had broken loose, just like an object subjected to escape velocity breaks away from the orbit that bound it to its planetary system. The paradox of extracting plurality from unity is of course a misperception related to the prejudice that size of territory or demographic capacity are criteria of literary value. In the global economy, where standardization privileges languages with potential readerships unimaginable in any previous era, to advocate the implosion of these privileged units in order to expand them internally rather than horizontally in a global struggle for dominance, may appear reductive or downright regressive. Why would anyone want to study the “regional” literatures of a geopolitical entity which, since the rise of the concept of “literature,” has lapsed from being the center of two world empires and become a marginal region of the itself de-centered European continent? Today the global institutions of learning have retrieved Goethe’s notion of world literature and put it to their own uses. In the face of such expansive vistas, how could diversification within a self-limiting system of cultural relations be justified? Schumpeter’s “small is beautiful” seems counterintuitive in the age of mergers, blurring of identities, coercive “hybridity,” and global promotion of a few voices empowered by the media. In this age, literary values (if one can still speak of literature as an autonomous activity) are made overnight by agents who are conversant with marketing techniques, rather than through the slow decanting that in the past allowed genius to emerge in unexpected places. A conscious borrowing from the older Goethe, the now fashionable concept of world literature seeks to profit from the great poet’s reputation for enlightenment. Let us then turn to Goethe himself to find out what he understood by Weltliteratur. On January 31, 1827, Goethe told Eckermann:

A view from Catalan literature617 Nowadays national literature has not much to say; the era of World Literature is at hand, and therefore every one must work to speed up its coming. But even when appreciating the foreign we should not remain stuck to something particular and wish to consider it as a model. We must not think that the Chinese is “it”, or the Serbian, or Calderón, or the Nibelungen; rather, when in need of something exemplary, we must always turn to the Greeks, in whose works the beautiful human being is permanently represented. We must consider everything else historical and, to the extent that we are able, appropriate the good that it might contain. (Eckermann 1987, 198)

World literature in Goethe’s sense is not a definitive paradigm or even a global one. It is merely transcendence of self-enclosed national literatures through being open-minded to traditions other than one’s own. The key to literary cosmopolitanism is never to assume that one literature is more valuable than the others. Each has value insofar as it is historical. Each is bound to its particular context and governed by the experiences of the people in whose midst it arose. None offers a complete, permanent intuition of human nature. Only the Greeks managed to give expression to the full measure of the human. Today a claim like this is derided as Eurocentric with invidious justification. After all, we owe the term “classic” to the classics themselves. The Romans, who coined the term (Aulus Gellius seems to have been the first to apply it figuratively to writers), already acknowledged the Greeks as models, which is hardly an ethnocentric move. The exceptionality of the Greek achievement seemed obvious to Goethe, and downgrading its recognition to ethnocentrism would have struck him as blind. Commerce among different traditions, such as the English, the French, and the German, seemed useful in that it elicited reciprocal criticism, setting a system of checks and balances that benefited those participating in the exchange. Multilateral criticism was the essential virtue of world literature, as Goethe saw it. This notion did not allude to standardized, planetary reading matter but emphasized the relational method that still powers comparative literature and its poor relative, Iberian studies. This was, in fact, the tenor of another conversation with Eckermann on July 17, 1827. For Goethe the Greeks were unique in the perfection of their aesthetic achievement. Excellence lifted their legacy out of the historical and into timelessness, where it became a model to imitate. Their supreme aesthetic forms, far from being abstract like the Platonic ideas, were realized in art and poetry. Thus, we learn from Goethe that literature can be truly cosmopolitan only insofar as it embraces an ideal that is both realized and unrepeatable. Because the ideal has already been attained, it can be present to the senses (which is the meaning of aesthesis). And being the feat of a people that no longer exists, it does not compete for cultural preeminence among nations but is the legacy of all. As practiced in the modern world, literature may claim a degree of cosmopolitanism only to the extent that it takes other literatures into consideration; in other words, to the extent that it is comparative. At the beginning of his essay “Philologie der Weltliteratur,” Erich Auerbach ruefully observes that the Goethean notion of Weltliteratur does not refer to what is common to human nature. It is not a “universal” literature in the usual sense of the word. It refers, rather, to what is human “as reciprocal fertilization of the plurality” (1992, 83). Auerbach considered plurality the very condition of world literature. He calls the break-up of the human species into a plethora of cultures humanity’s “felix culpa” (83), implicitly objecting to schemes for packing all cultural significance in the expansive blocks of a few post-imperial languages. He warns against the ongoing concentration leading to macro-units of concern, mentioning the Anglo-American and

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the Russian-Bolshevist, although today others could be added: Latin American, Francophone, Arabic, “Asian-Chinese,” etc. Promoted as richer and weightier on account of their scale, in reality these inflated units displace and repress a wealth of cultures that used to sustain each other in reciprocal autonomy. If the unification of the planet continues, warns Auerbach, we must get used to the idea that in a relatively short time only a few literary languages will remain, and in the end perhaps only one. At that point the idea of world literature would be at once realized and destroyed (84). Since he cautioned about this trend, a great number of languages have become extinct. Once flourishing literatures, now preserved in the archives of linguists or kept on lifesupport through sheer political will, would die out if exposed to the neoliberal environment of the global marketplace. In a characteristic gesture, world literature proponent Pascale Casanova disparages non-state and even small-state literatures as “divisive” and retardant of “the process of unification,” which she advocates. In The world republic of letters, writers who are untranslated because of the languages they write in are not merely subordinated to those who ride on the back of what she calls, euphemistically, “the centripetal forces of world literary space”; they are rebuked for not submitting to the dominant languages. In her historical blindness and social insensitivity, she claims that writers from peripheral countries who switch to “one of the great literary idioms” do so without any political or economic inducements, just out of “the invisible power of the belief that ennobles certain languages” and to flee from “the discredit that devalues others” (Casanova 2004, 281). One must at least commend Casanova for her candor. Others who proceed from the same conviction would never be caught politically off guard in this way. “The national writer,” she claims, manages to prosper only through the support of a nationalist, conservative, traditional, and ignorant readership (these are actually the epithets she hurls at the small language writer’s audience) (280), whereas the only saving grace for a writer raised in an ignoble language is to adopt “the language of literature par excellence,” namely French (281). Not only is French the language of literary afterlife; it is the idiom of moral redemption. Casanova goes so far as to claim that Celan wrote with the objective of being translated to French (i.e. wrote in a pre-French German), and she considers this alleged goal “the symbol of [his poetry’s] deliverance from the language of the Holocaust” (281). And from Goethe’s language, one might add. Casanova’s view of Weltliteratur is Goethian in name only. The spirit is missing. For the enlightened sage of Weimar, reverence for Greek as the language of culture par excellence was historically determined. Greek was to all evidence the source of European culture, the spring that fed everything that Europeans could recognize as a common legacy in their glaring diversity. Yet this reverence for a language that was the property of all peoples and of none in particular had the intended consequence of removing literature from the battlefield that Europe had become during the revolutionary and Napoleonic wars. A front-row witness to French expansion, he refused to counter its aggressive universalism with a combative nationalism, the way Ernst Moritz Arndt or Fichte did. Throughout these troubled times he continued to uphold a European perspective, which he knew to be as sincere as one’s appreciation and defense of the continent’s cultural plurality. It was never his goal to unify literature by means of a literary Esperanto. The linguistic tyranny resulting from the imposition of a “language of literature par excellence,” far from ennobling the natural language that would come on top in the competition for such dubious honor, would result in that language’s loss of distinctiveness and complexity. To serve as universal medium of communication, a language would need to shed the traits that it has developed by serving specific, local uses, and would need to cultivate a progressively abstract vocabulary and simplified syntax

A view from Catalan literature619 to accommodate readers from literally all walks of life. What remains at the end of this process is the Newspeak of Orwell’s socialist utopia, a language designed to reduce the range of thought by expurgating traditional words and expressions. Or else, at the other end of the spectrum, the increasingly unintelligible, anarchic idiom of the “liberated” writer, as Casanova calls the rebel without cause, i.e. without collective background of signification. This is the achievement with which she credits Beckett, who in her view, “attained total literary abstraction,” “a literature delivered from verbal meaning itself ” (2004, 347) through “a novel use of language, liberated from the ordinary constraints of plain readability” (346). If those were indeed Beckett’s merits, they would spell out literature’s exhaustion. Why write after that? Would not such absolute freedom be, in effect, literature’s endgame? Who cares to read the unreadable? And of course, the unnamable, that which has no signs in a human language is by definition the incomparable. Absolute abstraction puts a work beyond the limits of any literary tradition, removing it from the cross-examination in which Goethe perceived the benefit of world literature, defining it as a comparative space in which the enlightened critic engages potentially all literatures with the intention of “appropriating the good [each] might contain.” Beckett and other high modernists, through their experimenting with the limits of communicability, may be considered warning signposts of what lies beyond a certain threshold of rarefaction. There remains of course one higher degree of liberation from meaning, and that is to break loose from language altogether, reverting to silence. The move Wittgenstein makes at the end of the Tractatus. There is also a worldlier acceptance of linguistic conventions, which are to literature what the air is to Kant’s dove, namely the resistance that permits it to fly. Iberian studies flies indeed in the face of globalizers who convince themselves that their currently dominant languages have gained ascendancy through intrinsic superiority and their essential eminence consecrates the associated literatures everlastingly. Iberianists take a less exalted view of literary objects. Assigning cognitive as well as aesthetic value to texts, they understand this value in relation to actual rather than abstract linguistic communities. That is, Iberianists understand language and its literary byproducts as the outcome of a people’s millennial adaptation to their human and natural environments. Literature does not differ essentially from any other product of human labor, and puritanical theories of linguistic austerity notwithstanding, its discrimination remains a matter of taste. A literary masterpiece is the fruit of the accumulated toil of a long chain of people who have plowed the linguistic ground of their culture. Some writers till the soil of a language with a long tradition of amending, while others exert themselves on rocky slopes, but the quality of the crop cannot be judged by its size or its marketing. Like anything that grows in an environment, whether a peach or a philosophy, a literature reveals its full qualities when consumed at the source. This is not to say that literary works are intended for native speakers only. In this context “the source” must be understood figuratively as referring to original language and context. But it is to say that the permanence and eventual diffusion of literary works have nothing to do with their authors’ calculations, including writing in a foreign language and marketing their books through contingent centers of celebrity production. The examples of Montaigne in the sixteenth century, Kant in the eighteenth, and Kierkegaard in the nineteenth should be warning enough that the paths to fame are inscrutable. For champions of literary empires, Iberian studies must be a scandal, literally a stumbling block, for it reverses the direction, breaking up the ever more abstract world literary system into provinces of literary achievement. Contrary to prejudiced

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expectation, smaller units of relationality do not muddle along in isolation from the larger currents of thought but thrive in the multiplicity of contacts and in the challenges of comparativeness. For self-styled universalists, Herder has always been the great corruptor; the reckless rouser of the petty renaissances of peoples whose appointed places are the great cemeteries of history. But Herder is as good as one makes him out to be. If Auschwitz is proposed as the logical conclusion of the romantic exaltation of people’s specificities, then the Gulag must surely be chalked up to the Encyclopédie’s enthronement of reason. Such fallacies of retrospective causation are futile exercises in scapegoating from the trenches of history. If Herder influenced twentieth century nationalists, he also godfathered multiculturalism. What he certainly did was balance a lopsided universalism by insisting on the role of the senses in human cognition and aesthetic pleasure. His interest in neglected poetic traditions and mythologies inspired the renewal of literature on the continent, until then dominated by French classicism. He dignified the particular through awareness of the relation between poetic form and the totality of cultural practices. Paying attention to neglected traditions can revitalize a literature, a fact proven by the quantum leap that romanticism represents in German letters. The spectacle of that vitality prompted Germaine de Stael to publish De l’Allemagne, a primer of German culture for a French elite that had ignored the literary revolution taking place in a language deemed unfit for culture. Written between 1810 and 1813, at the height of French domination of the Continent, this book on a “peripheral” foreign culture bestowed fame on a prolific but otherwise unmemorable author. Iberian studies is post-romantic in the sense that the marginal literatures of the Iberian Peninsula completed their renaissances long ago. They do not stand in need of discovery either, only of being mises en valeur, that is, considered as fields worthy of thick description, in Clifford Geertz’s use of a term borrowed from Gilbert Ryle. By “thick” description Geertz (1973, 10) meant the extrication and elucidation of complexly layered meaning structures that make up a culture, so that the diverse facts and practices, which are always community-specific, are rendered in ways that benefit from intercrossing interpretations. And although such results can neither be anticipated nor deliberately produced, they cannot be ruled out. Above all, sorting out and studying the various linguistic layers of Iberian literary production in their intercrossing relations has a refreshing effect on the national traditions themselves. It revitalizes them, as Goethe remarked, by submitting each one to extrovert interpretation and to the interlocking criticism of the rest, so that each, in genuine world literary fashion, appropriates from the others the good they may contain.

A view from Galician literature The state and future of Galician studies in English-speaking academia Gabriel Rei-Doval Only recently have the status and visibility of Galician studies been acknowledged and visualized within American and English-speaking academia. Although the first Center for Galician Studies in the United States was created at CUNY in the 1980s, no previous consideration of the historiography of Galician studies in North America had been undertaken before the twentyfirst century, perhaps because the scholars working in this field had not grasped its existence as a field of inquiry by itself. A preliminary question to be asked is the actual meaning of both Galician and studies. Even if both concepts seem transparent at first sight, a more elaborate consideration seems to demand some discussion of both terms. Defining Galicia and Galician issues from an international perspective is biased by the challenge of having limited structures in charge of their definition, consolidation, and promotion outside of Galicia. From the perspective of the United States, the actual number of universities where Galician studies is institutionalized has contributed to its limited presence in programs and teaching structures. As far as research is concerned, the study of Galician issues could perhaps be equated with the situation of their Catalan counterpart, in that, according to Resina (2011, 52), it “can only be a part-time occupation” for scholars and practitioners in the US. Other factors limiting the vitality of Galician studies include the types of institutions where Galician studies scholars are mostly present, especially considering that only a few of them are research institutions. The definition of what can be characterized as Galician, in particular in literature, has been an object of discussion for some time, and will be addressed in the last section of this paper from an empirical, quantitative point of view, considering a data set obtained thanks to the opinions of many of the scholars who endorsed the MLA Galician Studies petition in 2013. On a slightly different note, when taking a look at the origins of the field and who those scholars practicing Galician studies were before the 1970s, we find academics in medieval studies such as Martínez López (Austin), specialists in literature, culture, and history such as González López (CUNY), and some professors more clearly oriented toward literature (Rubia Barcia, UCLA). All of them belonged to what could be called a first generation of Galician scholars who left Galicia in the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War and ended up having a relevant role in American academia. A little later, academics such as Kathleen March or Xoán González Millán would form a second generation when, in the 1980s and 90s, they envisioned Galicia as a field of inquiry by itself, and created a specific early configuration of the field as such. The conferences organized in Maine in 1985, Brown in 1988, and New York in 1991 are clear expressions of this consolidation and spectacularization of the field. Another relevant issue to discuss is the actual meaning of the term studies within the phrase Galician studies, and what it means. As suggested before, the emergence of an interest in Galicianrelated issues in the United States was related to studies in literature, mostly within the Spanish/ Hispanic tradition. This emphasis on literature has been and still seems to be the dominant one even in contemporary paradigms such as the Iberianist one proposed by Joan Ramón Resina: doi 10.1075/chlel.29.50rei © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Gabriel Rei-Doval This paradigm neither reflects the obsolete administrative combination of Spanish and Portuguese, nor a transitional approach leading to philological fragmentation, but it is the obvious way in which Catalan, Portuguese, Basque, Galician, and Castilian Studies can rise to the challenge of disciplinary renewal in an academic situation in which the study of national literatures appears to have run its course. (Resina 2011, 52)

Other factors at play are the lack of teaching positions in Galician studies in English-speaking academia, as well as the shortage of specialized publications in the field. Challenges also exist because of the different approaches to studies present in North American and English-speaking academia. The exponential growth of cultural studies and other approaches to literature that transcend the text as the main object of analysis might have had an impact for Galician studies being particularly isolated from the academic tradition that is most practiced in Galician universities and academic institutions. An additional challenge arises from the fact that practitioners of Galician studies are split between those living inside its territory and those who are spread out in different countries and continents. Colmeiro (2015), following Paul Gilroy’s fatal junction framework, calls this process the “de-territorialization” of Galicia, which would also involve those working in this field and could result in differing perceptions of the importance and status of the Galician language for its culture and literature. A de-territorialization of Galician studies would then imply a disassociation between the individual and the territory, emphasizing all aspects related to migration and exile as the core of Galician issues. Although this could also lead to a de-peripherization of Galicia by its inclusion in a larger context, it presents additional challenges too. The diffuse nature of fields where Galician studies is relevant, which is one of its main strengths, also contributes to the challenges of defining them as far as studies is concerned. This term tends to be regarded as indicating a discipline, field of study, or subject area. Until very recent times, Galician studies had not been sufficiently recognized as such internationally. The unprecedented approval of the Galician Forum at MLA in 2013 has helped tremendously to support and validate this new stronger status of the field in American and English-speaking academia, as we will discuss later in this paper.

The (re)presentation of Galician studies in monographs and companion volumes for an English-speaking audience If we take a look at the monographs available for accessing Galicia as a whole in English, we observe an immersion of literature as an object of study within its cultural context. According to Romero (2011, xx), “my cultural studies approach goes beyond literary texts to examine other forms of cultural production including parks, museums, films, Internet, music, and myths.” The title of her book itself: Contemporary Galician culture in a global context is indicative of the priority that culture seems to enjoy over literature from this perspective, thus suggesting that the overarching field of study is culture instead of literature, and the rhetoric sustaining that priority is to bridge “the literature/culture divide by focusing on the dialectics between literary texts and sociological accounts, historiography, music, and film”, as stated in the information provided by the publisher (). All chapters of Romero’s book merge literature

A view from Galician literature623 with other cultural artifacts, all of them considered part of the overarching field of “culture,” in agreement with cultural studies paradigms. Because, as Romero (2011, xx) recognizes, this nontraditional approach proposes a broader analytical paradigm than existing scholarly works in the field of Galician Studies.” Also published in 2011, Hooper and Puga Moruxa’s edited volume equally embraces the paradigm of cultural studies that is present even in the title of the book (Contemporary Galician cultural studies. Between the local and the global). However, this book, perhaps due to its choral nature, showcases a less consistent cultural studies approach throughout the volume, given that some of its chapters are clearly written from a point of view that could be labeled as historical (Fernández Prieto), clearly literary (Figueroa), or sociolinguistic (Thompson). Nevertheless, literature is still a central element of study in most chapters, even if the texts are not always necessarily the main object of analysis. Even more diverse is the assorted volume A companion to Galician culture, most recently edited by Miguélez-Carballeira (2014), which is also placed under the umbrella of the field of inquiry labeled as culture, as its title showcases. Of course, once we inspect the different articles it is obvious that several approaches and fields are considered, including the linguistic, literary, historical, and political. No particular explanation is provided on the gnoseological meaning of culture or its disciplinary scope and connection to cultural studies. In any case, it seems that for the editor the overarching discipline is culture as far as connection with society. No obvious justification is provided as to the role played by literature or literary studies as such, although it is apparently assumed that, as in the two above-mentioned volumes, literature would be simply another cultural artifact, to be analyzed along with other dimensions of culture such as language, history, or politics. No clear justification as to the interconnections is provided, although it is perhaps assumed that culture is the less connoted term to refer to the different dimensions of the Galician reality.

Some challenges in the description and analysis of Galician studies in English-speaking academia It seems obvious that the cross-disciplinary approach that Galician studies can bring to the academic floor speaks highly to the multifaceted character of Galician studies and its potential contributions; the work conducted from English-speaking academia has been essential to this end. The main challenges of these views have to do with the polarization between the images and analyses offered from within Galicia and the expanded versions provided from elsewhere, in particular the US and the British Isles. At the same time, it is legitimate to ask ourselves if we can practice Galician studies in such a way as to expand beyond the national Galician dimension in order to embrace its intersectionality with other disciplines (Hispanic/gender/migratory studies, etc.) without Galicia becoming too diffuse (Barreto 2014). Obviously, these challenges affect the definition and epistemological status of the country, when certain features usually disregarded are highlighted or prioritized from outside while other common motives and discussions in Galicia are either obviated or overlooked; the bibliographies provided significantly reflect this at times bipolar division between the production undertaken inside Galicia and that offered from scholars educated outside, in particular in English-speaking academia. This split is also conditioned by the

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fact that Galician scholars have often not published research outside of the Galician publishing industries and, on the other hand, because certain authors writing from a geographical distance might need to (over)legitimize what is produced and published from outside and what has been published in English, at times even overlooking common theories and analyses undertaken from territorial Galicia. Therefore, we could wonder if, on the one hand, Galicia can be constructed through an image offered from outside with a limited presence of descriptions and analyses made from inside and, on the other, if the image provided from inside could be suffering from a lack of the necessary perspective and larger context. A recurrent issue to be discussed is the need to provide a comprehensive view of Galicia that integrates the perspectives coming from the academic fields of language and linguistics, literature and culture, and other disciplines in the humanities and social sciences such as anthropology, history, education, sociology, or music. The culture/cultural studies umbrella claims to be able to overcome this polarity, but it is legitimate to wonder if this surmounting of the traditional philological paradigm is valid and credible enough for scholars whose disciplinary background and academic affiliation is housed within departments such as anthropology, history, or sociology. It is interesting to note that only some scholars in the area of history from Galician universities have participated in the configuration of the field of Galician studies internationally, while the contributions from other scholars in humanities or social sciences departments have not been relevant for the configuration of Galician Studies as a field of inquiry. A more fluent and obvious collaboration between scholars and research projects in education, art history, or sociology would allow a deeper redefinition of analyses and theoretical frameworks while describing the realities connected to Galicia. One of the commonplaces in critical analyses undertaken by scholars in the area of cultural studies, such as Colmeiro, Hooper, or Romero, is the belief, more or less explicit, that the philological tradition in which Galician studies were supposedly created is a problem for a comprehensive and thorough analysis of the Galician reality. Although important approaches and authors dedicated to creating the intellectual image of Galicia have come from history or anthropology (the composition and dynamics of the Seminario de Estudos Galegos created prior to the Spanish Civil War is a clear expression of this), it is a common statement that the analysis derived from the philological tradition is an obstacle for the development and expansion of Galician studies. However, in my opinion, what could actually be the subject of discussion is the specific philological approach that the study of language and literature has enjoyed in particular since the 1960s, when the University of Santiago de Compostela (followed by the Universities of Vigo and A Coruña in the 1990s) consolidated a philological approach to language, linguistics, and literature. Once again, a deeper and larger involvement of scholars from disciplinary frameworks other than modern languages (and including humanities and social sciences) would be immensely beneficial to expanding the scope and understanding of Galician studies in Galicia and elsewhere.

A view from Galician literature625 Academic structures and engineering: the creation of the MLA Galician Language, Literature, and Culture Forum The academic structures designed to enhance the visibility of Galician studies internationally, as suggested before, have historically been scant and not very stable. On the one hand, Galicia has missed and is still missing a governmental institution for the international promotion of Galicia at a cultural, linguistic, and academic level. Different nation-states have created institutions, such as the Cervantes or Goethe Institutes, promoted respectively by the Spanish and the German governments, while stateless nations have created their own institutes, such as the Ramón Llull Institute in Catalonia, which promotes the Catalan language, culture, and identity internationally. In the case of Galicia, other than the actions undertaken by the Xunta de Galicia (Galician government) to create academic centers and teaching staff to spread Galician studies at the university level, the only initiative to be noted is the International Association for Galician Studies (AIEG), which acquired international scope and rhetoric in 1991 after a conference held in New York, organized by the City University of New York (CUNY) and led by Xoán González Millán. In 2014, a new academic platform for spreading Galician studies was created in the US and internationally: the Modern Language Association Forum on Galician Language, Literature, and Culture. A proposal designed to that end was launched and submitted in collaboration by a group of scholars, mostly from the US, but also the UK, Galicia, and other countries, in a process that overall took approximately eighteen months. At this time, while waiting for events and dynamics to unfold after the MLA Convention in Austin, in 2016, it is difficult and too soon to offer an analysis beyond some preliminary considerations of what the academic innovation of this new Galician LLC Forum in the MLA means for Galician studies. Even now, however, some reference can be made to certain fundamental aspects of this unprecedented accomplishment for the field, which could be regarded as academic engineering, in terms of both its repercussions for the academic consideration of Galician studies inside Galicia, and the contribution to Galician studies from an Anglophone and international perspective. First of all, this achievement is a demonstration of how a minority/minoritized community is able to break out of a supposedly — and perhaps also truly — unfavorable situation. This fact should, on the one hand, make us think about the relationship that exists in Galicia to this condition of being a “minority” and the way in which certain cultural actors project our culture and identity, perhaps from an overly defensive and self-limiting angle. On the other hand, the unprecedented success of an initiative such as MLA Galician Studies suggests the potential and possibilities of academic engineering from a perspective such as the Galician one, that could lead to modifying the status quo and limits of academic disciplines both from gnoseological and historiographic points of view. Likewise, it is also an invitation to contemplate academic planning as sociology of science from a different and more comprehensive angle. Obviously, in order to face this latest dimension a convincing explanation for Galicia and Galician studies as an academic subject and a field of inquiry needs to be investigated. That was the goal of the MLA Galician Studies Survey (), a research project that produced this first contribution with findings and analyses relevant to the field of Galician literature and its perception both inside and outside of Galicia. This survey will occupy the next section of this chapter.

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Before discussing the survey results, a debate on some of the considerations that guided our approach to the internationalization of Galician studies will be offered. First of all, it should be noted that this proposal was designed from and for Galician and Galicianist scholars, the main role being played by those working in North America or in English-speaking academia. Second, this success was achieved due to a solid and consistent network aiming for a coordinated goal. It was fundamental that we all agreed that Galicia has its own status to be an academic umbrella itself. In other words, Galician studies is different and separate from both Spanish/Hispanic studies and Lusophone studies. This statement, that not everyone would perhaps agree on in the Iberian Peninsula, has not been opposed among North American and English-speaking scholars providing opinions on this matter. Also, the fact that Galician has been academically and alphabetically placed between French and German is a clear confirmation of its importance (or, better yet, its individuality). This reality obviously does not prevent Galician studies from being relevant both to disciplinary and cross-disciplinary approaches. Galicia is and should be an object of study both by itself (national perspective) and from a transnational and international perspective, including, but not limited to, Iberian, transatlantic, postcolonial, or migratory studies. Needless to say, Galicia and what it represents, including all of its cultural artifacts, are relevant for periods ranging from the Middle Ages (and even before) to present times, thus allowing Galician studies to be relevant for extended and varied sociohistorical and curricular areas and perspectives. Similarly, Galicia is part of a political and historical reality very unique in the international context, as it belongs to the multicultural, multilingual, and plurinational framework of today’s Spain. In addition, this reality also allows for a dialogue with another modern nation-state such as Portugal, equally important for the configuration of the modern geopolitical blocks on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. Even if the geopolitical influence that Galicia has in the contemporary world is not substantive, it is equally true that Galicia has the possibility of dialogue with national realities such as Latin American (i.e. Argentina, Uruguay, Mexico, Cuba, or Venezuela), to which Galician migrants contributed substantially, from a demographic and cultural point of view. Furthermore, Galicia is a clear example of linguistic and cultural diversity and has much to contribute to the debate on modern nation-states. Likewise, and given the position that Galicia holds in the Atlantic, culturally and geographically, it has the potential to be in direct interaction with the Celtic and Romance worlds, to which Galicians belong in different degrees. If we add to these dimensions the still underexploited pilgrimage perspective, in connection with the Way of St James, and the perspectives related to migration studies, the relevance of Galician studies is even more obvious, necessary, and attractive to disciplines that touch on these issues. And, of course, we should not overlook the more than obvious connections and relevance of Galician to European, transatlantic, Caribbean, and American studies. The aforementioned idea of Galicia as a bridge between two imperial worlds, such as the Hispanic and Lusophone ones, to which it can bring new blood, is an idea which still requires better and deeper thought. The analysis of Galician language and society in the light of the hundreds of similar or equivalent cultures from around the world is a reference we should consider a priority in our academic endeavors. Another particularly remarkable circumstance — even if already known — is that in the North American context, where MLA Galician studies is now fully inserted, there is a previous

A view from Galician literature627 academic context: that of the scholars who helped to create, even if from different approaches, that reality called Galicia in North America. Even if our perspective aims to emphasize Galician language, and the culture and literature emerged little by little after the Rexurdimento as a nationbuilding process, part of our success had to do with the emphasis and interest of those who were here in America before, dedicating their attention to medieval Castilian literature, the naturalist literature of Emilia Pardo Bazán, or the avant-garde theater written by the one and only Valle Inclán. In other words, Galicia has multiple dimensions that should not be excluded, even if our primary goal is highlighting what makes Galicia a singular and unique entity. The opportunity offered by the work consistently undertaken in collaboration within the MLA for over a decade, through special or thematic sessions, and the presence of topics related to our culture and country within wider contexts in this organization emphasize that Galicia can be itself while also collaborating closely and directly with the previously mentioned Hispanic, Lusophone, and transatlantic perspectives, just to mention three of the main ones.

An analysis of perceptions of Galician literature vs. literature on/from Galicia In this section, an analysis of perceptions of Galician literature will be undertaken. In December 2013, fieldwork was conducted among those who had supported the Galician studies petition mentioned above, which eventually led to the MLA approving this Galician Language, Literature, and Culture Forum. Over 300 scholars worldwide had endorsed the petition. While all of them were requested to participate in the survey, only 172 chose to answer the corresponding quantitative questionnaire. The respondents to this survey were scholars primarily in modern languages, and belonged to North American universities and institutions from other English-speaking countries, along with Galicia, and other non-English-speaking countries, among which Portugal and the Latin American countries had a significant presence. Therefore, the analysis derived from these data intends to explain the views and assumptions held by academics about Galician literature vs. literature produced by Galicians. In other words, rather than an interpretation of the perceptions of literature that regular Galician citizens or citizens of other countries might have, this research is focused on the ideas, assumptions, and views of scholars and academics with different ranks and levels of connection to Galicia. In the Galician Studies MLA survey we inquired about scholars’ perceptions of a number of authors (mostly creative writers) who were born in Galicia (see Table 1). Some of them wrote their works originally only or mostly in Galician (Rosalía de Castro, Daniel Castelao, Manuel Rivas, and Álvaro Cunqueiro). Of course, Rosalía is also considered a relevant author within the framework of Spanish literature, and to a certain extent Manuel Rivas plays a similar role, although the original versions of Rivas’s books were written in Galician. Álvaro Cunqueiro has also written books in Spanish, while Emilia Pardo Bazán, Ramón del Valle Inclán, and Camilo José Cela produced literature only in this language. In addition, we asked for perceptions of authors who are not (primarily) canonical fiction writers, such as Luís Seoane (perhaps known for his paintings and art pieces more than for his books), Father Martín Sarmiento, the main learned precursor of language studies in the eighteenth century, and prominent scholars and literary critics such as Xoán González Millán.

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Of course, the importance assigned to an author can be conditioned by a number of factors that in a survey of a quantitative nature should probably be understood as a compound of different underlying determinants and criteria, including not only their adscription to what could be considered canonical Galician studies but also the sympathy for the author or the different attitudes and behaviors involved. However, since all interviewees are scholars in the humanities, the diversity of all authors considered could shed light on existing perceptions of the different figures analyzed. In Table 1, one can appreciate a cross-comparison of the importance assigned to each individual, as well as to what extent scholars in the humanities knew them. The data obtained show that the contemporary critic Xoán González Millán is the least known author, as one-third of the interviewees (31.2%) are uncertain who he is. Luís Seoane, Martín Sarmiento, and (perhaps surprisingly) Daniel Castelao are unknown to around a quarter of the sample. This seems to indicate a series of underlying factors, including the country of origin and residence of the scholars interviewed, as I will address next. Among the writers included, Rosalía de Castro seems to be the figure whose work is most appreciated by academics: 94.6% of them consider her work as important. The only other competing figure within Galician literature seems to be Daniel Castelao (71.7%); but conversely, one in five of the interviewed scholars (21.4%) do not know his works. The two other most appreciated authors for Galician studies are Álvaro Cunqueiro and Manuel Rivas, while at the other extreme, the least appreciated author is Camilo José Cela (only 26.8% consider his books very important to Galician studies), followed by Valle Inclán (40.3%) and Pardo Bazán (50.3%). A special situation affects González Millán, probably because a significant portion of the scholars do not know his literary theory and criticism books, similar to the situation of Martín Sarmiento and Luís Seoane. After considering the different variables related to the perception of these scholars we find that their country of birth and country of residence are very related to the existing variance. Cross tabulations between importance of authors and geographical location show higher statistical significance for country of birth in some cases; however, for descriptive purposes and given the limited scope of the analysis within this essay I will use country of residence as the geographical indicator, as it refers to their labor relationship and therefore to the main institutional blocks where such relationship happens. Due to the number of respondents, and for statistical reasons, a decision was made to group locations in three categories: Galicia, English-speaking countries, and other countries (the last including the rest of the Iberian Peninsula, Latin America, and elsewhere), and response categories were reduced to four (unimportant, neither unimportant or important, important, and unknown). The results of this intersection between country of residence and perception of writers’ importance are shown on Table 2. This analysis offers some interesting arguments related to how the perception of Galician writers changes from country to country. In particular, the scant importance attributed to authors originally from Galicia whose books were written in Spanish is noteworthy; these include Valle Inclán, Pardo Bazán, and, most importantly, Cela. Only a third of the scholars residing in Galicia consider Camilo J. Cela important for Galician studies, while among those working in Englishspeaking countries and in other countries the percentage is about two-thirds. Meanwhile, scholars working in English-speaking countries assign similar importance to Galician studies to authors regardless of the language they write in. Cela is an exception that might perhaps be explained by his well-known unfriendly personality, his contradictory

A view from Galician literature629 relationship to Galicia, and how this might affect his perception by educated people. Likewise, about a third of scholars residing outside of Galicia demonstrate a limited knowledge of crucial figures of Galician culture such as Daniel Castelao (31.5%) or Martín Sarmiento (33.3%). As for those individuals grouped under “other countries,” their diversity (ranging from Latin America to Europe) probably explains that the effect is not as consistent as for those living in specifically English-speaking countries.

Conclusion The lack of knowledge about prominent intellectuals and primary figures of Galician literature outside of Galicia is not surprising if we consider the shortcomings of the international projection of Galician language, culture, and identity. Not only has Galicia lacked an institution, such as the Instituto Cervantes for Spain or the Ramón Llull for Catalonia, but it has also lacked consistent policies and strategies to make the distinct cultural artifacts identifying Galicia more widespread in English-speaking academia and internationally. The possible creation of an Institute for the international promotion of Galician culture and language has not only been demanded by Galician intelligentsia but also seems to be a real need in order to make Galicia’s uniqueness as a nation and its values more widely known and appreciated overseas. Most definitely, this would help the literature and culture expressed in Galician to be made visible to international educated audiences and the corresponding academic elites, and perhaps incorporated into their work. It is a gigantic task that deserves the attention of initiatives at the individual, group, institutional, and government levels. Literature and its connection with culture, regardless of how this is made and conceived, seem to play an important role in the expansion of Galician studies and the different facets connected to Galician realities. Besides offering sufficient institutional support from Galicia, other initiatives are equally necessary for the consolidation of Galician studies at an international level, including a clearer (re)definition of its meaning and goals, and the best strategies to follow. A productive and continuous dialogue that overcomes the tensions among different theoretical approaches is a prerequisite for the creation of a cohesive group, which should be open to innovations not only in literary, linguistic, and cultural theories but also in frameworks from other fields such as philosophy, anthropology, and other fields in the humanities and social sciences. Theoretical discussions are as important as the creation of sufficient academic muscle (including the completion and consolidation of initiatives as crucial as the MLA Galician LLC Forum) to sustain the expansion of the field in English-speaking countries. An international journal published at least once a year in English is another priority for the near future. Scholars working in territorial Galicia and overseas should be open to mutual cross-fertilization without having to give up their corresponding institutional umbrellas and theoretical frameworks. However, while Galician scholars should be open to viewpoints and frameworks practiced overseas, Galicianists living outside of territorial Galicia also need to be fully sensitive, curious, and aware of the whole intellectual context and history that has made Galicia a unique nation in the Iberian Peninsula and the world. The combination of both approaches would be mutually beneficial, allowing Galicia to clearly become a light in the Atlantic and beyond.

Gabriel Rei-Doval

630 Appendix Table 1. How important is the work of these individuals to Galician studies? Rosalía Not at all important

Castelao

Cunqueiro

Rivas

Seoane

Pardo Bazán

0.7%

2.1%

Somewhat unimportant Neither important nor unimportant

Valle Inclán 1.4%

Cela 9.2%

Sarmiento

Glz. Millán

1.4%

0.7%

6.2%

6.9%

12.0%

0.7%

1.4%

1.4%

1.4%

1.4%

3.5%

5.5%

7.6%

16.2%

v2.8%

3.5%

Somewhat important

3.4%

4.8%

17.4%

20.0%

18.4%

30.3%

36.8%

28.2%

24.1%

24.8%

Extremely important

91.2%

71.7%

68.8%

68.3%

51.8%

50.3%

40.3%

26.8%

48.9%

39.0%

Unknown/uncertain

5.4%

21.4%

12.5%

10.3%

25.5%

5.5%

6.9%

7.7%

22.0%

31.2%

Sarmiento

Glz. Millán

Table 2. Importance of the work of writers to Galician studies by country of residence Rosalía

Castelao

Cunqueiro

Rivas

Seoane

Pardo Bazán

Valle Inclán

Cela

32.3%

22.6%

48.4%

9.7%

12.9%

19.4%

Galicia Unimportant Neither unimp/imp

3.2%

3.2%

Important

96.8%

93.5%

96.8%

Unknown

3.2%

3.2%

3.2%

6.5%

93.5%

96.8%

54.8%

61.3%

29.0%

96.8%

83.9%

3.2%

3.2%

3.2%

3.2%

3.2%

3.2%

9.7% 2.3%

English-speaking countries Unimportant

1.1%

1.1%

2.2%

4.5%

11.5%

3.4%

Neither unimp/ imp

1.1%

2.3%

1.1%

5.7%

4.4%

5.6%

18.4%

4.6%

2.3%

Important

93.5%

66.3%

79.5%

86.7%

57.5%

86.7%

80.9%

59.8%

58.6%

56.3%

Unknown

6.5%

31.5%

18.2%

12.2%

35.6%

6.7%

9.0%

10.3%

33.3%

39.1%

4.3%

21.7%

Other countries Unimportant Neither unimp/imp

4.3%

8.7%

4.3%

4.5%

Important

95.8%

91.7%

95.8%

87.0%

81.8%

91.3%

82.6%

69.6%

95.5%

63.6%

Unknown

4.2%

8.3%

4.2%

13.0%

18.2%

4.3%

4.3%

4.3%

4.5%

31.8%

A view from Portuguese literature Critical notes towards a transnational perspective Paulo de Medeiros Traditional literary historiography has been bankrupt for some time now. The illusion that it would be possible for any single reader, regardless of how gifted, to cover the literary record of any given people, nation, or region, has long been revealed for what it was. If the project of literary history has become an impossible one, it has never been more needed. The exponential increase in the rate of publication, the continuous recuperation of older, forgotten texts, and the increased rate of communication and dissemination, including translation, on a global scale, make it much more necessary, and difficult, to place a given text in its context, its tradition, and its field of influence. The ICLA’s series “A comparative history of literatures in European languages” is in many ways a direct response to such a state of affairs and a utopian project simultaneously. Never mind that the volumes might be obsolete even as they get published. To a certain extent any project of this nature is always bound to such predetermined obsolescence without losing any of its appeal and usefulness. What is at stake is not a futile chasing of the ever-receding line of the present but rather a judicious and informed critical assessment of literary texts across time and space. Newer types of literary historiography, such as the monumental A new literary history of America, edited by Greil Marcus and Werner Sollors in 2009, distinguish themselves by dismantling traditional parameters of literary historiography, including the direct correlation between language, nation and literature, and by insisting on presenting a multitude of voices with the necessary overlaps and gaps such an approach entails. Similarly, the two volumes of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula also refuse any simple identification between language and nation and the notion of literature, emphasizing a comparative and even transnational perspective in which the defining term becomes geographical space, that of the Iberian Peninsula as a whole or of its different and shifting constituent parts. In many ways it goes directly against the simple identification of any given literature with a nation; however, it does not — perhaps cannot — fully escape the constraints that have insisted — and continue to insist — on a direct and tight identification of the literary with the national. What matters is not so much whether or not the current effort succeeds in rejecting such a restrictive view of literature but that it tries. For it is not a simple matter of accepting that literature ideally ignores borders, since in many ways texts themselves are also bound to specific national or linguistic configurations and if some do cross borders easily, not all can do so with impunity. In the attempt at resisting borders, geographical, linguistic, political, or between high and low cultural artifacts, the history of Portuguese literature as it evolves in these pages is a shifting and multiple history rather than a static and stable entity. As such, the image of Portuguese literature that emerges is one that fully engages the past but also faces toward the future. This difficult enterprise has many important and strong points; it also, inevitably, has some blind spots and weaknesses. One could think of it as a dialectic between vices and virtues, but without any moralistic overtones.

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Principal among the virtues is the attempt to think of literature in ways that thwart the national and linguistic barriers, and this can be seen as the guiding principle behind the whole enterprise, clearly enunciated at the outset of the first volume: “The point of departure was an explicit renunciation of those chronologically organic and narratively omniscient histories which attempt to cover all fields and all periods” (Cabo Aseguinolaza, Abuín González & Domínguez 2010, xi). Yet, it too can be seen as a structural problem, even if not quite a vice. That is, by eschewing more traditional ways of categorizing literature, the current effort also risks abandoning very useful, even needed, comparisons. For instance, deciding to leave aside a discussion of movements, such as modernism, also precludes a discussion of how this was differently interpreted within the Iberian Peninsula and how it related to the rest of Europe (to stay within the geographical scope of the series). In the case of Portuguese literature this is an especially problematic gap given the importance that the early modernists had in advancing Portuguese letters and in aligning themselves with other artists across Europe. It is also problematic inasmuch as the first generation of Portuguese modernists, the Orpheu generation, with its iconoclastic innovations and manifestoes, clearly stood in opposition to the backwardness and stilted cultural expressions of a society dominated by petit-bourgeois and provincial concerns. Leaving any serious consideration of Portuguese modernism out of the range of such an ambitious project as this comparative history is a blind spot that actually goes against the grain of the methodological sophistication its editors so clearly manifest in their own reflections on historiographical processes and options. Furthermore, it is not as if all traditional categories have been abandoned. The extended treatment of genre for instance, can well be considered a conventional way of organizing any literary history even if, by its implicitly theoretical nature, it usually avoids the common pitfalls of relying on a mere chronologically based listing of representative works. The discussions on genre are a great opportunity to advance our understanding of Portuguese literature in comparison with others, whether Iberian or not. Yet, they too offer puzzling choices. Discussing children’s literature at some length is an innovative and important addition to more traditional considerations of the lyric, epic, and dramatic genres. And one that assumes special relevance given the fact that the whole field of children’s literature in Portugal, long neglected and to some extent under the influence of foreign models in translation — indeed, many Portuguese born in the mid to late twentieth-century most probably were better acquainted with the classics of French and English children’s literature than with any Portuguese equivalent. And although it might be very fine, even with a pan-European project in mind, for a Portuguese child to imagine life in, say, an Enid Blyton setting, there is no doubt that, as Francisca Blockeel points out, much of children’s literature in Portugal actually deals with several aspects of national history. However, although the section on genre includes a chapter on Spanish children’s literature, the one on Portuguese appears in another section. As much as it can be difficult to actually get any one scholar to deal directly with a comparison of Portuguese and “Spanish” literature, it is disconcerting to find that these two chapters, by Francesca Blockeel and Euriell Gobbé-Mevellec, respectively, are even separated in their placement within the volume. Blockeel’s expertise, following her previously published work (Blockeel 2001) is a valuable contribution to any history of Portuguese literature. Yet, as important as this entry is one must wonder at the missed opportunity to reflect on certain aspects that are very marked in Portuguese children’s literature as well, such as the fact that a large number of major authors, from José Saramago to Ana Luísa

A view from Portuguese literature633 Amaral, have also published picture books, or, as Blockeel herself has had occasion to show, Africa plays a special role in books aimed at a juvenile audience (Blockeel 1996, 2007). If one looks at the entry on the “Essay” another strange sense of disconnect is in operation. Reflection on the essay as a genre has not abounded in Portuguese but a recent study on the essay and the fragment as genres, published by a well-known senior scholar, João Barrento (2010), could easily have been mentioned; indeed many examples of important essays in Portuguese could have been brought to a discussion that happens to be much more restricted to earlier epochs. One is surprised to find no mention there of Eduardo Lourenço, author of a vast oeuvre of essays and generally recognized as one of the most important essayists in Portugal. What use is made of Lourenço interestingly, comes in Volume 1 and in relation to some of his pronouncements on lusism or the qualities that would be specific to Portuguese society, in two chapters by Laura Cavalcante Padilha and Inocência Mata, whose remit is actually the relation between Portuguese writing and that of its former African colonies, a point I will return to. Rehashing the old notion that Iberia has not brought out many philosophers (although this ignores the whole question of intellectuals in the diaspora) does not seem very productive, especially if one would have in mind figures as distinguished and as distinct as the philosopher José Gil in Portugal or the novelist Javier Marías in Spain. Indeed, perhaps it would have made more sense to look at metafictional narrative as developing a great part of what can be seen as theoretical reflection, as many novels (and poems) function like philosophical essays; perhaps that is work to be done in the future, disrupting more traditional forms of generic understanding and at the same time pointing to specific differences between Iberian forms of discourse and intellectual activity and those of other parts of Europe. And once we start doing that perhaps we will find actually more similarities between Iberian forms of philosophical discourse and those of other regions of Europe, as the blurring of genres is certainly not a unique phenomenon. A surprising, or at least unexpected, issue with the current attempt at re-conceptualizing the literary history of the Iberian Peninsula concerns the relative lack of balance between its constitutive parts. This inequality makes itself noticed foremost on two levels: one is the chronological, the other the national and supranational. They intersect of course, and that moment in history when Castile had managed to achieve full hegemony in the Peninsula from 1580 to 1640, can even be seen as a discreet chrono-geo-political convergence that both allows us to see certain problems with drawing a comparative history of Iberian literatures more clearly and obscures them. Not for nothing is this a period — historical, not literary — that resurfaces several times in the present volumes. But those two axes are also fundamentally distinct. The chronological imbalance shows itself in a specific emphasis on older texts. While in itself a welcome, even desirable, phenomenon since so often literary study nowadays simply leaves behind anything prior to the nineteenth century as so much unwanted ballast, I see it as a failed chance for a new understanding, even more so a comparative and transnational understanding, of Portuguese literature. For although in the medieval period and even in the Renaissance one could see literature written in Portugal as always involved in a transnational and translinguistic system, this dimension gets eroded along with Portugal’s role in European and world affairs. However, at least since the return to democracy in 1974, current Portuguese literature, even when very much focused on specific Portuguese issues, must be understood in transnational terms. This is a point I shall return to. For now I would still like to add that such an attempt to go beyond the strictly national and the confines of its isolated and isolationist society, was already operative in the first

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modernist generation and perhaps no one figure embodies that as well as Fernando Pessoa. As it is, those hopes and aspirations were to be basically null and void with the premature death of some of the key figures of Portuguese modernism and the effacement of Fernando Pessoa. Had Pessoa’s works been translated into other languages at the time of publication, or had they even just been published, the development of Portuguese literature in the twentieth century and its relations to other European modernisms might have been very different. It is surprising and odd, then, that precisely such an innovative and revisionist literary history such as the current one has left behind any serious consideration of that phase of Portuguese literature. As such it is perhaps merely following what has become standard critical practice. Even though in the sixties and seventies there was a genuine interest in incorporating Portuguese modernism into the fold of European modernism, as can be seen for instance in the chapter devoted to Pessoa by Gabriel Josipovici in his Lessons of Modernism, this is nowhere to be seen now. Key recent studies such as Michael Levenson’s Modernism (2011) or Josipovici’s own What ever happened to modernism? (2010), make no mention whatsoever of Pessoa, in spite of the fact that much more of his path-breaking work has been published and translated. It is perhaps one of the antinomies of the present age that allows for a much fuller recognition of the importance of certain figures, and yet keeps them bound — even more than before — to their supposed status as peripheral or exotic. Exoticism is such a common issue when dealing with Iberian literatures anyway, that perhaps one should devote one or more chapters, another volume even, just to a mapping of how systems of marginalization get perpetuated. Could it be that the near omission of Fernando Pessoa from the present volume actually reflects a desire to counterbalance what may be perceived as too strong a national emphasis on hallowed figures of the canon such as Camões, Eça de Queirós, and indeed Pessoa? The only reflection on Pessoa comes as yet another surprise, as he is made to represent diary writing in Portugal with his Book of disquiet. That might appear exciting, as that “anti-book” is one of the greatest and most challenging works from the twentieth century and, though for very different reasons, should rightfully be considered alongside other crucial works such as James Joyce’s Ulysses, Kafka’s narratives, or Proust’s Recherche. But it is a fictional diary or a “factless autobiography” that completely exploits, plays with, and subverts the notion of autobiographical writing. The chapter in question has the merit of drawing attention to autobiographical writing which, until not long ago, was indeed a neglected genre in Portugal. Yet to do so from a perspective that ignores both recent (and not so recent) theoretical developments concerning autobiographical writing, as well as the avalanche of autobiographical texts that have been published in Portugal in the last twenty years, is myopic and misleading. To compound such shortcomings with the most stereotypical presentation of Pessoa and his (in)famous letter on the creation of the heteronyms, ignoring all the important critical work that has been developed either in terms of Portuguese modernism in general (Sapega 2011; Pizarro & Dix 2011), or specifically in direct comparison with English and American literature (Santos 2003), is not simply a failure of the imagination but intellectual poverty. Conversely, some chapters surprise in a positive sense by extending the discussion on literature to other related fields. One of these concerns the still difficult relation between literary and cultural studies. Anxo Abuín González in “Forever young: Disciplinary anxiety, or the eternal (re)birth of Spanish cultural studies” does so with an admirable scope and dexterity, maneuvering through a veritable minefield of scholarly and critical opinions, and even

A view from Portuguese literature635 managing to refer to the Portuguese situation very lucidly. Another important contribution that best exemplifies the aims of the present volume is “Notes on the cinematographic canon and its relation to the theory of genres in a Spanish and Portuguese context” by José Antonio Pérez Bowie and Fernando González García. The ability to reflect theoretically on film in relation to literature, indeed as linked in so many ways to literature, and to do so transnationally, fully aware of the differences between the separate nations but not yielding to the temptation to treat them in isolation, manages to carry forward the goals of the collection. Personally one could wish for a somewhat different emphasis. Although the authors justly note certain peculiarities in the development of cinema in Portugal, they leave behind what certainly could be seen as one of the key characteristics of such films, and one of special relevance to a comparative literary history, namely the importance given to adaptations of classics of Portuguese literature that has always marked Portuguese cinema. But that in no way obscures the importance of such a chapter. Indeed, one is tempted to consider whether the focus on more contemporary artifacts and other forms of media might be one of the factors that facilitate a greater ease in breaking the national boundaries, or whether it might be a certain disciplinary reluctance in crossing borders which traditional literary studies, so often called for in order to uphold any given image of the nation, might still be less ready to undertake. This brings me to the other form of imbalance or inequality, at the national or supranational level. One of the effects of insisting on a comparative and spatial understanding of literary history — away from the national or linguistic paradigms that have proved exhausted to a large extent — is a decentering of the very notion of the national. This is not to say that ideas of nation get rejected or abolished, of course. It means that the division between Spain and Portugal is shown as ineffective for the understanding of literature and other forms of culture, which, even when put to the service of nationalist ideology, also constantly interact with other texts from other national traditions. So far so clear, and this hardly constitutes a new or polemic observation. In the specific time-space, both geographical as well as historical, of the Iberian Peninsula, this movement that refuses the binary opposition between Portugal and Spain also works towards refusing the hegemonic claims of Castile over other nations and rightly insists on a consideration of specific “other” literatures within the model of Iberia. One is tempted to recall Thomas Docherty’s observation at the end of his Aesthetic Democracy: “Aesthetics makes possible history as the experience of altering the self: and it is democratic precisely to the extent that such history can never be mine or mine alone, for an altered self knows no I” (Docherty 2006, 160). A concomitant problem with this Iberian decentering, though, is that it can even serve to reinforce a certain peripheral perspective on Portuguese literature as it becomes not just the other of Spanish but an interlocutor simultaneously with four other “national” literatures. If in principle this splitting of “Spanish” literature makes perfect sense and can be seen as a key principle driving the gradual competition between “Spanish,” “Peninsular” or “Hispanic” studies (principally in, but by no means limited to, North American universities) and “Iberian studies,” its results in terms of an understanding of “Portuguese” literature and culture are by no means the same as for “Spanish” literature. This can be seen most strongly perhaps in an important collection of essays, edited by Joan Ramón Resina, Iberian cities (2001c) in which Madrid is clearly decentered — there are two essays on it, one by Resina himself, with the telling title of “Madrid’s palimpsest: Reading the capital against the grain,” alongside others on Barcelona, Bilbao, Granada, Valencia, and Santiago de Compostela — but where the only Portuguese city

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to be considered is… Lisbon. Likewise, in the present volume one could point to ways in which the intended decentering has actually ended up by reinforcing a certain traditional understanding of Portuguese literature, as there is much less coverage of modern and contemporary texts in Portuguese than of older ones, and in comparison to the different Iberian literatures, Portuguese ends up appearing even more peripheral (with the exception perhaps of Portuguese cinema). As Peter Hitchcock remarks, “[o]ne cannot read a discipline as [Paul] de Man reads Wordsworth or as Dorfman and Mattelart read Donald Duck, but comparative reading can provide a historical and material conflict of faculties in which disciplinary vigilance becomes a condition of knowledge itself ” (Hitchcock 2014, 13). Certainly, one cannot read the push toward Iberian studies in general or the concrete example of the present volume as if they were literary texts. But the disciplinary vigilance Hitchcock calls for is indeed an epistemological condition without which one risks merely changing new mistakes for old. The present project advances more toward a really new conception of Iberian literatures than simply a decentering of old paradigms. In the case of Portuguese literature it prepares, without ever doing so explicitly, the ground for a transnational understanding of Portuguese literature that involves both its contextualization in an Iberian medieval and early modern context as well as its “Atlanticizing” in the contemporary period. The vexed issue of transnationalism obviously is at the core of the entire project, and this is made very clear at several points but perhaps most clearly toward the conclusion of César Domínguez’s key essay in the first volume, which is cautiously optimistic: in recent years exactly such an intersection of the post-nation with an Atlantic space has occurred […]. It is still too early to judge whether the referents of Jürgen Habermas, whose proposal on postnationalism is constructed as a re-reading, strongly influenced by the German context, of the Kantian theory of cosmopolitanism, and by Paul Gilroy, who defines an Atlantic — Black, let us not forget — as “one single, complex unit of analysis [used] to produce an explicitly transnational and intercultural perspective” (2000, 15), are inconsistent when applied to the Iberian sphere, and therefore, are reduced to a mere metaphorical usage, moved by the desire to overcome national structures and their particularities. (Domínguez 2010, 131)

In order to move forward with a transnationalization of Portuguese literature, it does not suffice to put it in an Iberian perspective. Given both Portugal’s extensive colonial ventures and the lateness of decolonization (in 1975) when compared to the rest of the European colonizing powers, the literatures of the African countries that have Portuguese as an official language are key to any understanding of what “Portuguese” literature in the present is. This is already undertaken, partially, by three of the essays included in the first volume by Laura Cavalcante Padilha, Inocência Mata, and Ana Salgueiro Rodrigues. All three address important questions, mention significant authors, and manage very elegantly to avoid any stronger or bolder formulation that might have appeared controversial, polemic, or even misplaced. Such skills are nowhere better in evidence than when Laura Cavalcante Padilha discusses highly problematic and contested terms such as “lusophone” and “lusophony.” Indeed, such terms are often a necessary shorthand to avoid more accurate but even more cumbersome designations to refer to the various countries that have Portuguese as an official language. Its inadequacy becomes very apparent the moment one moves beyond the strict limits of the literary text to consider film, for instance, since a number of films created by African “lusophone” directors only make partial use of Portuguese, having recourse as well, and sometimes exclusively, to creole and to African

A view from Portuguese literature637 languages. But more problematic than such details is the fact that it is just impossible, all good intentions notwithstanding, to separate the term and its uses of what sometimes is a decidedly neo-colonial strategy. However, this should not obscure the fact that in reality, and beyond any neo-colonial strategies governments and individuals may harbor, the interrelation between the various literatures written in Portuguese necessitates a different way of conceptualizing the spatialization of literary history. Beyond the Iberian space, and even beyond the Atlantic if one thinks of Mozambique’s relationship with the Indian Ocean, the notion of “Portuguese” literature must be addressed away from the question of the national. Let me be as clear as possible: this has nothing to do with any questions of influence and even less so with any idea of a European attempt to retain hegemony. Quite the contrary. As vital as European Portuguese literature today might be — and I would claim it is — the importance of African authors such as José Eduardo Agualusa, Mia Couto, Luandino Vieira, João Paulo Borges Coelho, Paulina Chiziane, and others, for a transnational understanding of Portuguese literature cannot be overestimated. What is at stake is not so much the language, even if that might seem to be the case. Inocência Mata discusses this in reference to Mia Couto, one of the authors who has most consciously altered the Portuguese language in order to construe his specific form of cosmopolitanism. Perhaps, I would like to suggest, what is at stake is the shared history of inequality and suffering that all nations have, in their different ways, endured and which has provided so much common ground cutting across regional, national, and continental differences. Obviously this is not as simple as it may appear. The experience of the war for independence on the part of the Portuguese is not quite the same as on the part of the liberation movements. And whereas Portugal, after a brief spell of utopian euphoria right after the 1974 revolution, in which it dared dream of a different future until it was brought back to face the harsh consequences of economic failure, was quietly folded into the rest of Europe, extensive and prolonged civil wars came to mark the experience of many of those in the newly independent nations, causing collective and personal traumas that have not yet begun to be properly addressed. Of one thing, though, there is certainty: it is not in isolation, splendid or otherwise, that these questions can be addressed. And if anything, it is the writers themselves who have been paving the way for scholars and critics to undertake transnational work. The way in which the multiple realities of Portugal and the African “lusophone” countries intersect is made amply clear by a number of acclaimed novelists, be it António Lobo Antunes in O Esplendor de Portugal (The splendor of Portugal, 1997) — a bitter anti-epic of the postcolonial condition in which it becomes difficult to know where Portugal and where Angola exactly are — or José Eduardo Agualusa, whose Teoria Geral do Esquecimento (A general theory of oblivion, 2012) presents a severe indictment of contemporary Angolan society by looking at the past decades since independence and focusing its narrative on the figure of a Portuguese woman who would have immured herself inside her once luxurious apartment. Both novels make clear how Portugal and Angola are deeply scarred by the respective mutual and separate traumas and the violence that suffuses both societies. They also make clear how the work of memory, the selective remembering and forgetting and its imbrication in narrative, is essential for any possibility of surviving a catastrophic present and building a different future. To keep in mind Docherty’s words about aesthetic democracy is to understand literature and literary studies as key, indeed privileged, means of engaging with society. As such there is an urgent need to address some of the most pressing societal concerns. A theoretical concern with spatializing a comparative understanding of Portuguese literature

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is a necessary first step. Once adopted, it becomes easier to address questions still ignored or hardly touched upon in these volumes. Questions of gender, for instance, are highly relevant for any understanding of Portuguese literature, since many of its most significant voices — from a Florbela Espanca or a Judith Teixeira at the beginning or the twentieth-century, to a Lídia Jorge, Ana Luísa Amaral, and so many others in the present — are women. Or questions of resistance to oppression in all its forms that has marked most of Portuguese literature in the long decades of the fascist night. Or the current state of perpetual crisis afflicting Europe in general. Perhaps one direction in which to take the project of a comparative analysis of Portuguese literature, or better yet, of transnational “Portuguese” literatures, might be to assess the constant relations between them and historical crisis.

A view from Spanish literature A new armed vision: Comparative literature in the Iberian Peninsula Germán Gullón The outlook of comparative literature studies in the Iberian Peninsula seems to be quite healthy, as shown by the papers collected in these two volumes — one hundred miles removed from the pauper state of affairs I found it in the eighties of the last century, when I started to teach the subject. The number of new ideas and reading approaches presented will certainly inspire more traditional Hispanists working outside the field of general literature and literary theory. And I hope the spirit of inquiry, the call to arms, we hear through these texts can effectively challenge the institutional neglect of the field, as expressed by Anxo Abuín González: “With very few exceptions, the Spanish academy has remained indifferent to the onslaught of cultural studies, even in the case of the most epistemologically flexible areas, such as literary theory and comparative literature, which has had an institutional presence since 2001.” Such words constitute an open invitation to avail ourselves of the best possible theoretical arsenal. When, years ago, I taught the “Introduction to comparative literature” course to undergraduates at the University of Pennsylvania, I never failed to bring to their attention The armed vision, a book by Stanley E. Hyman (1947). The purpose was to show how the sharp tools offered by literary theory to dissect cultural problems permit us to question all critical methodologies. The present collection of scholarly studies uses a similar point of departure. When the faculties of humanities are being dismantled by the ever expanding interest in the hard sciences and economics in England, The Netherlands, Sweden, and Germany, to name a few countries, this publication illustrates why the liberal arts are essential in our day. They provide a podium from which to scrutinize our invention of traditions, like the European nationalisms, and to see them for what they are: the theoretical constructions of a certain time, brought about by emotion and politics. Comparative studies of the kind found in these papers are necessary, as I said, for a better understanding of the cultural well-being of our modern civilization. The comparatists are still a minority within the faculty ranks of humanities in Spain, as in the realm of Hispanism as a whole. A simple look at the published proceedings of the Asociación International de Hispanistas (International Association of Hispanists) gives you an idea. I would say the proportion of scholarly works that use literary theory balanced against those that do not is about one in ten. Another perspective shown by this book is the creation of a space of dialogue, a “thirdspace” (Michel Ugarte [2010] presents the concept in his piece), where the traditional literary historians, the philological commentators, meet those interested in anthropology, in social studies, and in feminist theory, to initiate a pioneering dialogue.

The purpose of the book and the invention of a new space for multicultural inquiry One prime purpose of this publication is to place under the critical microscope a historical inaccuracy: the equivalence of the literature written in the language of Castile with Spanish literature. This traditional point of view, advanced by renowned philologists such as Marcelino Menéndez doi 10.1075/chlel.29.52gul © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Pelayo (1880–82) and Ramón Menéndez Pidal (1929), excluded the other languages spoken and written in the Iberian Peninsula: Catalan, Basque, Galician, and Portuguese. This exclusion from the Iberian canon was ideological; it springs from the nationalist idea of the country’s unity: one Spain, one country, one language, even one religion. So, as Cabo Aseguinolaza states in the opening of Volume 1 of this Comparative history, the idea behind the academic project is to present an alternative Iberian context for the literature of the Peninsula (2010, 6). At the same time, the volume proudly announces to the scholarly world, both in the Iberian Peninsula and in the world at large, that a new generation of Iberian comparatists is born, ready to claim its territory. Last but not least, those Iberian scholars, the literary critics, are “free from the heavy mandate of historical discourse” (Cabo Aseguinolaza 2010, 52). The goals set by the editors have been achieved. The “heterogeneity that the national paradigm has silenced, obscured, and denied” (Domínguez 2010, 53) regains its rightful place. A community of Iberian scholars, using Zygmunt Bauman’s terminology (2001), restores the mislaid pieces of the mosaic. At the same time, a new diverse community is invented, and the old, created by historicists and philologists, is neatly disposed of. After reading the first-rate contributions of the initial volume, it is quite evident that a new literary space is taking shape, one where the literatures of Catalonia, Galicia, the Basque Country, and others coexist. We can indeed talk, as Domínguez does, of a new paradigm. The foundations of the new space are laid by studies dedicated to the manifestations of multiculturalism in Spain and Portugal, a group of essays that review the contribution made by oral literature, mostly undervalued to this day, and a section where the temporal frames and -isms used to compartmentalize our cultural heritage are closely examined. A fresh image of the field of Iberian literatures supersedes the old historical one. The second volume adds an important number of robust studies engaged in the exploration of such themes as cultural mediation and popular culture, to round out the picture. In sum, these two volumes create an intellectual “thirdspace,” the term popularized by Edward Soja (1989), as mentioned by Ugarte (2010, 211); that is to say, a critical space where the reality presented in literature, and the interpretation of it made by historicism, is revised. The necessary dialogue between the different cultural traditions of the Iberian Peninsula is set for a wide-angle exchange.

An alternative approach My task at this point is to advance new lines of inquiry left outside the scope of the studies gathered here. Given the wealth of approaches, it is a difficult one. Nevertheless, I will fulfill my duty by proposing an alternative way to look at the Iberian cultures that also challenges the historical periodization. The point of departure is the revolutionary intellectual moment around 1800, when literature appeared as we recognize it today, which marks the glorious beginning of the “Age of Literature (1800–1989)” (Gullón 2005). 1800 marked the year “that signalize[d] the displacement of the mimetic and pragmatic by the expressive view of art” (Abrams 1953, 22), and 1989 was the year the Berlin wall came down. In other words, 1800 was the moment when literature and the arts in general became autonomous, and esthetic beauty was conceived for the first time as a separate kind of beauty, created by the artist, different from natural beauty, and perhaps superior to it. The philosophical underpinnings were spelled out by Immanuel Kant (2000) in

A view from Spanish literature641 his Critique of judgment, where he established the distinction between cognitive experience and esthetic experience. The fall of the wall marked the moment when the internet began to take over our lives, and literature was overrun by commerce. One of the key concepts used to conceptualize the fin de siècle period of Spanish letters, the generación del 98 (generation of ‘98), has been challenged by a number of important writers and scholars, most notably by the Nobel prize winner Juan Ramón Jiménez (1953). The encompassing modernismo (modernism) is a much better expression to describe the century’s sunset. It does not rely on a pure historical moment to express a new mentality of the period’s cultural life. Music and painting, as well as literature, must form part of “the characterization of any artistic period” (Ch. Butler 1994, xiv). In a sense, I propose to craft a renewed playing field, where the actors are not peons in a chess game of politics or historical periodization, but protagonists free to interact with their peers in another space. The comparatist scholars have worked hard to define, and redefine, the Iberian ideal of the title of the book, but perhaps there is still room for a more radical approach to the subject: to challenge the manner in which literature is understood. What I propose is to bring to the debate a tradition of critical studies where the author is not the center of the textual enterprise (McGann 1992), to prove instead “the existential statements of literature” (White 1978, 3). To assemble the arguments to make my case, I do not have to go far. A few of the texts at hand can offer a way into our theme. When Jon Kortazar explains how he selected the writings to create a substantial body of Basque literature, he realized the number of existing literary books was too small. “The first published [Basque] works, literary or otherwise, that appeared in the city of Bilbao go back to the beginning of the seventeenth century. We cannot speak of a literary system existing in that period” (2010, 223). Clearly, the critic understands that certain books he is dealing with fall outside the realm of literature, but he is going to use them anyway. And he is right to do so. I have been telling my students for the last forty years that the words “literature” or the “novel,” in their present meaning did not exist in Spanish before the eighteenth century. Why then, should we try to compress all written works into one history of Iberian letters, from the Poema de mio Cid (Poem of my Cid) to the present? No reason, except the historical approach to the study of the subject has forced us to do it. In a new section of the first volume, dedicated to “Dimensions of Orality,” coordinated by one our best Spanish prose writers and an excellent scholar, Paloma Díaz-Mas, she writes the following: “Literature which is transmitted orally has traditionally not been included within the literary canon. It was often considered a form of folklore rather than literature” (2010, 475). If we add the remark made by Kortazar, about Basque writings that do not belong in the ranks of literature to Díaz-Mas’s one that oral literature was also excluded from mainstream literature, we can tell that the word “literature,” referring only to the written belles lettres, excludes quite a bit of material. The definition of what literature is has been taken for granted, and extended to works previous to the existence of “literature,” such as Don Quixote. Somehow the aura of literary works published after the eighteenth century, when literature became an autonomous field, is so dominant that we have named countless books written before then as literary in order to make the historical tradition more commanding. The course of our culture has been transformed by great books like Don Quixote, but the matter-of-fact interpretations of Cervantes’s masterpiece are without doubt more powerful than the esthetic one that deletes the hardness of reality from its pages.

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The end of the age of literature Many scholars are unwilling to deal with the fact that texts, literary or not, are living artifacts, that their meaning changes over time. The multiple interpretations of Don Quixote or, for that matter, The waste land (1922), by T. S. Eliot, are clear examples (Carey 2005, 47). I have published extensively about the ways that context alters the meaning of Benito Pérez Galdós’s novels. The Canarian author wrote a series of different endings for several narratives to adapt his texts to new moments in history. His masterpiece, Doña Perfecta (1876), has five different denouements. The two better known are the original ending of the narrative, where the protagonist’s aunt, doña Perfecta, orders a gunman to kill her nephew, Pepe Rey. In an equally famous theater version, the command is given by a secondary character of low economic status. Around the time of the novel’s publication, 1876, Pérez Galdós was involved in an ideological controversy with the Catholic establishment. It was fitting that the assassin belonged to his sworn enemy, the Catholic upper-middle class. Twenty years later, when he prepared the drama version of the novel, Spanish society had changed, so it was more convenient to use a maid, a person of the lower classes, to be the one to give the fatal command. Galdós was disappointed with the lack of social progress shown by the lower classes; their self-interest and lack of education blunted the efforts of progressive politicians to reform society. It is the same spirit expressed in Campos de Castilla (Fields of Castile, 1912), by Antonio Machado, a few years later. Literary scholars are also adverse to entering into the problematic of authorship. Roland Barthes (1988) many years ago challenged the long-held idea that the author is the single authority on the meaning of the text, an idea borrowed from biblical studies. The mere presence of the author’s name on the title acts as a sort of warranty of authenticity (Levin 1963). The voice speaking in the text belongs to God, a fallacy accepted in traditional textual studies that have contaminated the figure of the author for centuries (Maestro 2007, 17). Today the author must be considered a collective figure, because the editor, the corrector of the text, the illustrator, the critic, and the reader also make important contributions to the text. The editor on many occasions decides if a part of the book should be changed, cut, or revised, to conform to the demands of the market. This is really bad news for the faithful, as an autonomous art died a few years ago (1989), when the market took over the publishing business. The main job of today’s editors is not to discover literary pieces, but to search for best sellers, make money, and satisfy the shareholders. The stamp given by a literary prize does not indicate a book’s quality, it only signals that it is going to get a lot of attention in the media. Publicity equals sales (Gullón 2004). The question is simple. The notion of an author, a person writing on inspiration, driven like a boat with his sails full of wind, is a romantic idea that belongs to the past. The figure of the reader is also far trickier than it looks. The docile follower of the author’s set of values has vanished. Readers, especially young ones, follow their own tastes and not the critics’ recommendation to select the books they like. There is also psychological evidence that the superiority of the critic over the common reader was an illusion. John Carey (2005) explained that it is impossible to measure the superiority of the consciousness of an educated person over that of an uneducated one. It is impossible to say whose is more valuable. The pleasure obtained by a cultivated reader of Shakespeare’s sonnets cannot be said to be superior to the enjoyment experienced by a reader of mystery or detective novels, like those of John Grisham. Furthermore, the esthetic experience is not superior to a real-life one. We cannot defend any more the idea that the emotions emanating

A view from Spanish literature643 from a work of art are more intense, profound, or genuine than those we experience in everyday life. Tastes are also very difficult to assess; as John Carey points out, Leon Tolstoy, for example, did not like Shakespeare. Going back to our main subject, we can say that the Age of Literature, an epoch between 1800 and 1989, was characterized by the key fact that literature became an autonomous and selfsufficient art form. Subsequently, the authors and the critics drew a circle around it, closing its mind to outside influences. The author could fill a book with words and experiences taken from other books, like Castilla (Castile, 1912), by Azorín, which is a new version of La Celestina (1499). Reality and life were kept outside. Thus, the artistic identity was invented, and the common people and life were kept at a distance. For almost two hundred years, the debates over literature and its interpretation were confined to the literary. And, little by little, the lack of oxygen made it impossible for the common reader to breath in such a confined space. As Tony Judt has said about today’s public debate, it has been reduced to the theme of economics (2010, 99). Thus the human being of flesh and blood in literature was left behind, apart, looking from the outside in.

The emotional turn in history The voice of the human being, the origin of oral communication, was muted, silenced for hundreds of years, by textuality in academic circles, producing a true paradox. George Steiner pointed out in My unwritten books (2008, 121), that the original text, the Bible, is in essence a compilation of oral narratives, as was the Poema de mio Cid or Lazarillo de Tormes, and many of the folklore tales that, as shown by Vladimir Propp (1968), formed the basis of all narrative. Twenty years ago, a new wave of writers, the members of the so-called Generation X, born between the 1960s and the 1980s and much disdained and not understood by the Spanish artists, brought about a cultural revolution. Novels, such as Historias del Kronen (Stories from the Kronen, 1994), by José Ángel Mañas, displayed a total disdain toward the professional icons of their parents, the baby boomers, because everything was (and is) text based, and not only in literature, but in law, history, and the sciences. The baby boomers denied the validity of representing emotions not submitted to the control of rational thought. They chose professions where knowledge was established according to rational and textual parameters: law, university professorships, or medicine. The clash with the aspirations of the young men and women who wanted to be members of rock bands, and experience the world through music and feeling, was inevitable. It is important, as Walter Ong (2002) proposed, that we understand how our consciousness is formed not only by book knowledge but also by the oral component. The textual traditions have been responsible for the rational development of our culture, while the oral tradition and music kept the emotional component alive. Thus, the quest of comparative literature can take another step forward. The initial intention of the discipline, to unite the literatures of the world and improve understanding among peoples of different cultures, remains a solid foundation. The call to accept the variety of cultures, classic ones (Castilian, Portuguese) and emerging ones (Basque, Galician), on equal footing, as done in these two volumes, requires a mixture of materials to rebuild the Iberian house. We should even get used to a more difficult task: literary culture must share the space with popular culture. The superiority of the cultivated mind cannot be shown to provide more happiness to his owner

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than the mind of an avid reader of detective novels. Their moments of ecstasy weigh the same on the happiness scale. The Age of Literature, when the belles lettres were at their zenith, has ended. The quality of the books is measured now by sales and not by their esthetic beauty. All readers, as we just alleged, have the same rights. The visual and digital cultures has removed literature from the podium where the intellectual debates are taking place. But, good books are still being published, and certainly our libraries are saving what I consider the most important treasure of civilization, our literature, the legacy of the written word. Perhaps the reading of literature does not make us better, but it certainly teaches us how to better understand the world. When we read a novel of the nineteenth century, we accept the system of values of the implied author (Booth 1961), and read the text according to the instructions given by the narrator. There is a pact between the author, implied author, and reader. We are on the same page with regard to the ethical content of the book. For example, in the third volume of Fortunata y Jacinta (Fortunata and Jacinta, 1886–87), by Pérez Galdós, we hear one of the characters, a double of the author himself, Evaristo Feijoo, telling Fortunata that she can keep a lover if nobody finds out about it, so that the order of society is not disturbed. Galdós is in fact defending a moral double standard. Social stability relies on keeping up appearances. This is the way we learned to read the middle-class novel of the eighteen hundreds, up until around 1989, when bourgeois ethical standards became questionable, giving way to the emotional. From then on, the representation of ethical transgressions gave way to that of emotional transgression. Not only are we going to read the literature from previous years with a new perspective, for example the adultery committed by Fortunata is no longer just something to be covered over by the double standard; the emotional impact of the adultery on the husband now has to be taken into consideration. Stieg Larsson’s best seller saga Millenium (2005–07), and the films based on the novels, are a perfect example of the role played by the emotional component in literature and in culture in general. The primal injury of Lisbeth Salander, the protagonist of the trilogy, is caused by the father’s abuse of her mother. The daughter sets him on fire. Her rage reaches an even higher point when she is sexually abused by a tutor. The book tells the story of the survival of a traumatized soul, showing that society makes us feel apart and different. The success of the book and the films indicates that the reader feels sympathy for Salander’s emotional distress. One science has taken the driver’s seat in the cultural development of the present: neurobiology. And, unexpectedly, a state of mind, emotion, appeared as a cognitive complement to reason as a source of information. In fact, the way people feel counts more than the rational component in many occasions. Or to put it in a less dramatic way, rationality, the cornerstone of knowledge from law to medicine, is under constant pressure from the emotional component of life. Let us go back to Fortunata y Jacinta for a moment. At the end of the novel, the young Fortunata is dying and she has to ensure her son’s future. Her final decision is to give custody of the child to the Santa Cruzes, an upper-middle-class family, because the boy would enjoy a better future than if his guardianship went to some poorer relatives. The interpretation of the passage by readers is, as one would expect, very positive. Fortunata solves the problem in the best possible manner; even some of the best critics describe the mother as a sort of angel (Gilman 1966). In today’s historical moment, when the emotional component is so significant, the emphasis of the mother’s passing away will be on the irreparable loss to the child. Nobody will love him as much as his real mother. Biology, the new humanities, takes over the Kantian ethical component

A view from Spanish literature645 of understanding reality according to moral law. We have situations in real life with surrogate mothers that end up in real dramas. Emotions are present everywhere, and they can be more decisive in forming our values than either reason or DNA. One of the achievements, among many, of bourgeois society was the use of reason to guide one’s life, and the emotions were something to be tamed. Uneducated people were thought to react in the most irrational ways. In any case, the emotional component is always present in our societies, and politicians use it to generate fear of outside danger, and to win the confidence and trust of voters. Somehow logos (reason) is taking a back seat in society now. The turn toward emotion has brought many good things, such as the way we can now hear the pleas of people in distress, like gay or transgender individuals, whom society for years has gone out of its way to condemn. The law — reason — has been able to bring equality to the races, but it is the emotional component that enables us to finally overcome the ridiculous fear of the different. We are witnessing an emotional turn in history, toward the study of how these emotions, present throughout the history of mankind, are claiming a place in our cultures (Gay 1984–98). For example, the notion of honor, so important when we study Golden Age drama: we can now analyze how this emotion has developed, how it impeded the advance of rationalism, and how the emotions expressed in actions, such as duels, marked our culture. It will be a very important contribution to Iberian studies if we are able to discern, for example, the amount of emotion that goes into the defense of the languages of the different autonomies, Catalan, Basque, and so on, as well as the rational arguments for the use of these languages. Perhaps we will be able to find an equilibrium. The history of Iberian Literature is full of emotional expressions, such as, from the above mentioned Poema de mio Cid, the cowardice of the infantes (princes) of Carrión who hide under a piece of furniture when a lion happens to enter the room where the Cid is sleeping. The brave warriors and trusted companions of the Cid get in front of the lion so that their master can continue sleeping. But what is important now is to see how the rationality of the text has been able to cover these emotions. During the Age of Literature we reached the zenith of the writerly; we touched the heaven created by reason and reflection. Now in a new age it seems the priority falls on the emotional side of our humanity. Television and the digital environment are changing our priorities, because the emerging visual arts, such as the television series Wired (2008), present a different human equation, the old ethical dilemmas go hand in hand with the new emotions. The verticality, the causality of history, loses its rigidity on its way to a more contextual, integrational modus, as we debated in these pages.

A view from comparative history International comparison: A historian’s approach Heinz-Gerhard Haupt It is one of the specificities of comparative history that it is a younger scientific discipline than comparative literature. It has also been very much criticized and attacked as a method of historical analysis and research. For some scholars, its weakness was its origin inside the macro-sociological studies of the 1960s; for others it is its linkage with national stereotypes and the national space that make it unattractive when transnational relations and global contexts are at stake. Indeed, comparison in history was a latecomer as a science. Comparative studies and reflections on religion, philology, or law were already well established sub-disciplines while history remained, during the nineteenth century, closely linked to the nation-state and its historical legitimation (Haupt & Kocka 1996; Haupt 2001). Comparative studies appeared in historiography more as a program than as practice during the interwar period in order to diminish the nationalism of historical studies and of historians. Broader empirical comparative studies in history first appeared only during the 1960s in the historical sociology of Barrington Moore (1966), Theda Skocpol (1979), or Charles Tilly (Tilly, Tilly & Tilly 1975). These studies used comparison in order to defend general theses about dictatorship, the social state, or revolution. Their look at different countries was a way to enlarge the empirical basis of their studies and to formulate general hypotheses. Historians of economics and demography took over comparison in their often quantitative studies in order to establish general patterns of development like the “take-off hypothesis” of Walt W. Rostow (1960) or the European family model. Comparison was in this context linked to the macro level, to test hypotheses and develop models. Neither within the social sciences nor within historiography were these studies accepted without criticism. Their teleological tendency and its linkage with modernization theory were especially criticized. In addition to this historical sociological trend, studies developed that used comparison in order to determine the specificity of national developments. The German Sonderweg was the most developed and questioned model, but there was also the American exceptionalism, la voie particulière de la France, etc. (Kocka 1999). In German historiography, the explication of the success of Nazism in 1933 was the main tool. This question was discussed widely not only in systematic studies but also at the empirical level. A lot of specific features were advanced in order to answer the question why among Western European civil societies it was German society that did not develop a liberal political culture when industrialization changed economic and social structures. The factor that was finally isolated to characterize the German way of development was the strong orientation of society and of bourgeois life towards bureaucratic models (Kocka & Frevert 1995). Generally, comparisons that use national developments as a model with which they compare other national cases are less convincing. They have a certain normative side and have been accused of “methodological nationalism” (Beck & Grande 2010). This approach, which uses holistic unities, might overestimate their coherence and is not convincing for detecting the specific logic of national developments. The insistence on latecomers and forerunners might give some insights in chronology (Gerschenkron 1962). But if one compares societies to a theoretical model of civil society, using, for instance, English society as an ideal-type, one will write the doi 10.1075/chlel.29.53hau © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

A view from comparative history. International comparison647 history of Eastern or Southern European societies as a history of what is not (Kocka 2007). It is not possible in this perspective to discover the logic of their specific development. It was against comparative history that the concept of cultural transfer was developed and defended (Espagne 1994; Espagne & Werner 1988; Espagne 1999). It questioned the isolation of national cases and insisted on the hybrid character of the units of comparison. In looking at the relationship between towns, regions, and nations, it was interested in the importance of different mediators, such as booksellers, translators, editors, intellectuals, travelers, etc., and in the changes they introduced in the cultural goods they were transferring from one place to another. It questions also the cultural homogeneity of the compared units, by underlining their character as cultural melting pots (Middell 2008). The concept of transnational history, which was first developed in the United States, took over the criticism of comparative history and insisted on the entanglement of societies and nations across empires and oceans. “The key claim of any transnational approach is its central concern with movements, flows and circulations, not simply as a theme or motif but as an analytic set of methods which defines the endeavour itself ” (Bayley et al. 2009). Indeed, transnational approaches, which are — along with comparison — one of the preferred methods of global history and transfer history, have opened up new domains of research (Iriye & Saunier 2009). The underlying logic is to show how much the interconnection between different parts of the world, and between different fields, matters. In the field of the history of migration, this approach has had the most visible and important results (Hoerder 2012). But the danger of this vision is that it tends to exclude dysfunctions and conflicts, violence and war. There is a tendency to write the history of these interconnections as a story of success. The more transnational links are established, the more the world is united and the more circulation takes place, and thus the more the unity of the world may be assured: this could be an underlying message of transnational history. This vision tends to exclude power relations and inequalities, it is not so much interested in the history of failed or delayed contacts and relations or in those social groups that are resistant to migration and circulation (Haupt 2011). Between transnational and comparative history there exists a mutual dependency. Transnational history which is not using comparison is in danger of becoming a remake of the history of foreign relations. Johannes Paulmann (1998, 674) correctly articulates this danger: “In order, as a historian, to recognize what is happening during a transfer, one must compare the following: the position of the object under investigation in its old context with that in its new context, the social origins of the intermediaries and of the affected parties in one country with those of another, terms in one language with those of another, and finally the interpretation of a phenomenon within the national culture from which it comes with that in which it has been introduced.” But comparative history has also to study the connections between units — trade and migration, mutual perception and travel, for instance — in order to explain similarities and differences, convergences or divergences between the studied cases. And comparative history is bringing this dimension into its studies (Kaelble & Schriewer 2003; Lenger 2013). In a recent critical article, a cultural and gender historian discussing the use of the comparative history method in different fields of Anglo-Saxon historiography concludes: “I would urge rather that we remake comparative history through an attentiveness to the interplay of local and global, to the meaning of rupture as well as communality, and always with an eye to the teleologies of essentialism that plague not just comparative but all forms of historical endeavour” (Levine 2014, 347). In her perspective, concentration on the national level as well

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as concentration on Western modes should be avoided. In comparative literature as well the concentration on national literatures, as along with a Eurocentric vision, has been challenged. Studies on national structures, which in the 1970s and 1980s were mostly developed by social historians, are no longer predominant in comparative history. Regions as well as localities are accepted in recent studies of comparative history, and the borderland, as some kind of transgression between nation states, has its place in comparative studies. At the same time, historians remind us that in order to study political decision-making, laws, or military history, the nation state remains a very important unit and cannot be given up. Comparative literary studies are also concerned with the specificity of different national literatures, but in the present volumes regional features of literature are presented, as well as Catalan, Basque, or Galician literatures, for instance. In studying images of the other, the identity of the self is at stake. These studies are taking up the debate on cultural transfer and the idea of the construction of identities by different relationships and even inside nationalism. They relativize the importance of the national without excluding it, and are contributing to making it a flexible, constructed category (Sluga 2004). Their methods and results can be easily integrated into historical studies on culture. Very close to the historical studies on transfer are those dealing with the role of intermediaries. Canon building, translation, and censorship are important elements that alter — inside transfer studies — the transferred cultural good and determine the modalities of transaction. The essays in the section on genres and repertoires might be likened to those debates on sources in comparative history, even if the different forms in which historical processes are transmitted has not received a lot of attention from historians. It is one of the particularities of comparative history that it is aimed at deepening our knowledge of historical phenomena by relativizing its linkage to sources. In doing so, it distances itself from the tradition of historical sciences that, from the eighteenth century onward, made proximity to sources an important disciplinary standard (Kocka & Haupt 2012, 12ff.). In comparing two phenomena, comparative studies cannot stick closely to primary sources and have to use secondary literature as well in order to discuss similarities or differences inside a broader framework. In this it is methodologically nearer to historical synthesis than to micro-history studies. It might lose the multiplicity of national studies, but it gains in complexity of argument. The studies in literature are richer in this respect, as they are comparing the different meanings and usage of literary genres — a question which even in cultural history is not predominant. The comparison of the semantic use of terms, the ways of classifying or of using specific languages, is not completely missing in comparative history but has a much more minor place than in comparative literature (Juneia & Pernau 2009). This is surely due to the fact that historical comparison at its beginning was concentrated in social and structural history and was not very attentive to specific speech situations. With the importance of Reinhard Koselleck’s approach, incorporating the history of terms (Begriffsgeschichte), a sensibility for the semantic and particular terms, as well as relationships between concepts, is developing. In this context the idea of the assymetrischer Gegenbegriffen (asymmetrically opposed concept) introduced by Koselleck is extremely helpful, as it points to some underlying conflictuality in discourses (Koselleck 1979; Koselleck et al. 1991; Steinmetz 2000; Hamsher-Monk et al. 1998). History as well as literature is using comparison in order to establish similarities and differences. For both, comparison helps to establish analogies or typologies between phenomena (Cohen & O’Connor 2004). To determine the origin of structures and processes, literatures and

A view from comparative history. International comparison649 genres, is a shared perspective by the two disciplines. Diachronic as well as synchronic comparisons are used in both. One of the advantages of comparative literature studies is the multinational and international character of literature. With the knowledge of one language one can analyze the Spanish and parts of the South American literature, or the broad fields of Francophone or Portuguese literature (Lüsebrink & Siepe 1993, 11ff.). For historians comparing two societies, very often the command of two different languages is necessary, and the frame of reference and the sources might be extremely different. In comparative literature, the reception of works and authors is much more present than in history, where reception studies are well known as methodologically and empirically difficult to conduct. In literature and history, the value and result of comparison depends on the initial problematic, the way in which the large context is reconstructed and brought into the argument and theoretical premises are questioned and readjusted. This principle makes comparison a risky and demanding method, which requires analytical skills, empirical knowledge, and historical culture. It is not astonishing that only a minority of historians are practicing comparative research. Both historians and historians of literature have reflected on the role of comparison in their arguments. In history, the four functions of comparison were defined as the following: (1) the heuristic, (2) the descriptive, (3) the analytical, and (4) the paradigmatic. In making comparisons, new historical problems and explanations can be discovered. Comparisons help to give a clear profile to individual cases and to underline their specificity. Comparisons contribute to the explanation of historical phenomena, and can in certain cases also be used to test hypotheses and to check the value of generalizations. Finally, comparison contributes to de-provincializing historical explanations, opening our eyes to analogous developments and other forms of development or to answers given to different problems (Kocka & Haupt 2012, 3ff.). As John H. Elliott (1991, 23) put it: “above all a comparative approach forces us to reconsider our assumptions about the uniqueness of our own historical explanation.” In a recent article, a Swiss historian of literature shares some of the same functions (von Sass 2011, 40ff.). But he adds that comparisons might shorten explanations, as they could more easily illustrate the point of a discussion or of a complicated situation. He also underlines that comparison helps one to locate oneself in changing situations, and opens different possibilities of action. Finally he stresses the importance of comparison in surprising us by showing how new aspects might be discovered in materially similar things. These three functions are not common in historical and sociological discussions of comparison, but they might be integrated. Van den Braembusche (1989), for instance, differentiates between the contrasting, generalizing, macrocausal, inclusive, and universalizing functions of comparison. The variety of possible functions of comparison makes it obligatory for those who practice it to practice it with “care and sensitivity” (Levine 2014, 346).

A view from comparative history, I Comparative literature and literary history Maria Alzira Seixo When I became a member of the executive council of the International Comparative Literature Association, in the month of August 1985, comparatists were holding dear the research project developed by the coordinating committee. It was, without a doubt, the long-term undertaking that was expected to yield the concrete manifestation of the reflective efforts of the association’s membership, represented by this research group. Their objective was to prepare a vast work, a comparative history of literatures in European languages. At that time, Eva Kushner was organizing the volumes on the Renaissance with colleagues André Stegmann and Tibor Klaniczay, and I often saw her in various places around the world, meeting with Paul Chavy, who was helping her with the project, during executive council meeting breaks or during her research trips to the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. These large volumes were impressive. They were published by Akadémiai Kiadó, thanks to the efforts of former president György Vajda, with secretary Ulrich Weisstein, who happened to be the author of the first volume in the series, on expressionism, and vice-president Anna Balakian, author of the second volume, on symbolism; Vajda himself was the author of the third volume, Le Tournant du siècle des lumières. Other members of the council, like Jean Weisgerber, Albert Gérard, Gerald Gillespie, and others, followed in their footsteps, and the publisher changed depending on local circumstances until the project came to John Benjamins, where Volume 1 of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula was published in 2010, directed by Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza, Anxo Abuín González, and César Domínguez. I am happy to see that a scholar in Portuguese literature — Ellen Sapega — forms part of the editorial team now. The volume is balanced, but I have difficulty accepting it entirely. Indeed, it is unlikely that we could contemplate the very rich nineteenth century in terms of literature in the Western part of the Iberian Peninsula (a geographical reality that this volume correctly considers on a theoretical level, while highlighting the “Peninsula effect”) without taking into account the number of special features that that century presents in terms of writing in Portugal. Works by writers such as Garrett, Herculano, Camilo Castelo Branco, Eça de Queirós and Camilo Pessanha (to speak only of the big names) are much more related to French culture, as far as their writing goes, than to our immediate neighbors, which may also be a “Peninsular” question, since this division by “spaces,” which the coordinating committee often adopts, out of necessity, is almost always, as we know, linked to the spirit of the times, which is always the strongest foundation of history. This question is considered in Volume 2, although in my opinion, Leonardo Romero Tovar may have already offered some discussion on the subject in Volume 1. The same goes for medieval Portuguese poetry, which is accorded some importance as far as the length of the text, but whose local specificity does not seem to be highlighted enough. However, I accept that a dominant perspective could be adopted for the volume as a whole, for the purposes of organization, but if that were the case, I do not understand why this book would offer a nineteenth-century doi 10.1075/chlel.29.54sei © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

A view from comparative history, I651 perspective on Spanish literature, including Unamuno’s important work in Portugal, a kind of floating island, in my opinion. What I find important in Volume 1 is that questions that are generally absent in literary history, or only very briefly mentioned, are considered here in a way that exceeds a simple liminal mention. There is a clear desire to present particular reflections on means of linguistic expression, national characteristics, the difference in fields of vision; and one of the enlightening studies on this topic is Laura Cavalcante Padilha’s on the play of identity and difference, which deals plainly with the post-colonial question. (Which, by the way, is fairly complex, and even ambiguous, for the literary domains of Portugal and Spain.) I also find very successful the analytical approach grouping creativity according to “city,” an entity which we inherit, it is true, from other conceptions of nations or groups of countries, but which can also apply, in some cases, to the two Iberian countries. I rather like, in Volume 1, the preference shown toward the work of local authors, as far as possible, to support the arguments the research puts forward; I also like the identification/ distinction highlighted by Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza regarding the conception of history as an apology, which ultimately goes much farther than the eighteenth-century period he discusses. And I gladly accept César Domínguez’s enthusiasm in his justification of the geographic criterion for the direction and orientation of this subseries of comparative literary histories under the aegis of the coordinating committee. This criterion has its disadvantages, but in my opinion, they are minor. In a work of this kind, choices are difficult; it is incredibly easy to criticize them, and we must measure results according to: (1) the pertinence of the conclusions to which the reader may come upon reflecting on what he or she has read; (2) the exemplary nature that a node of literary production (movement, author, text, external relations) acquires for any reader after they have read this work. I will say without hesitation that the contributors have achieved very useful results, even important ones, concerning literatures whose age makes them some of the founding bloodlines of literatures in European languages, as well as of neighboring literatures throughout political history. What this volume affirms by its very existence is also important: the continuity of the ICLA coordinating committee’s project, which now numbers over twenty volumes, in a very nice collection. Its publications are not created with reservations, but rather, with an aim to encompass diverse modes of research. A history of these diverse modes of writing literary history appears in the diversity of these volumes, and it is no longer a question of refusing simplistic lists of authors/ works/dates/pseudo-movements-with-static-names, etc., but of looking at the places, the differences, the preoccupations of the periods, the theoretical positions of each group, the disparities within groups, all this contributing to a work of reasoning, of critical consciousness, to develop and follow. If comparative literature as a discipline (or rather methodology, or perspective) achieves a corpus where multiplicity is a factor in one way or another, the obsession of totality haunts it: because the domain of literary comparatism is the obsessive “whole” which confronts its own impossibility, and, therefore, is in constant loss, which, in turn, justifies its continuity and progress. And it does this while relating it to history and criticism, because as time passes, almost all acquired information evolves; and the critical comparatist gaze changes as a function of the object, the objective, and the subjectivity of human nature, no matter how “scientific” it might be. It is, therefore, always a question of a whole in a state of loss.

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Literary history, in turn, develops the sentiments of a past too well-known, or not known at all because it is not worth knowing, and seeks to rehabilitate itself through a change in “gaze” (perspective), accentuating the critical function (analytical or ideological), which increasingly takes on a mixed nature that picks up the hybridity coming from elsewhere. And everything mixes; and makes (produces) knowledge. At the center, always at the center, there is reading-writing, which is the heart of our activity as historians and analysts of texts. Volume 1 of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula often gives us the feeling of a reading in disintegration, of an object of study in snippets, of an almost puzzling “difference” of the critical gaze in relation to its object, which rightly requires us to have an attitude of expectation, of entering a game, and, in this very “difference,” ends up making us conscious of an extension of knowledge that results from reading it. It is thus, in my opinion, not a question of saying whether the book has flaws and/or good qualities (it has both, to be sure); it is rather a question of recognizing whether we have learned something by reading it or not. I learned many things. Other things, which I already knew, are missing here, I think.

A view from comparative history, II A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula? Santiago Pérez Isasi Literary history used to be impossible to write; lately it has become much harder. (Lawrence Lipking, “A Trout in the Milk”)

A new history for a new field Several scholars have written extensively on the genealogy of national literary histories from the nineteenth century onward, in parallel with the development of the idea of “national character” and its political derivations through Europe. I will, however, stress, as Isabel Clúa Ginés does in this very volume, its close relation with the development of modern, national education systems during the nineteenth century. The Spanish case is paradigmatic in this sense: José Amador de los Ríos, the first Spaniard to write a history of Spanish literature (Historia crítica de la literatura española, 1861–65; A critical history of Spanish literature) was also the first professor of Spanish Literature at the Universidad Central, while Antonio Gil y Zárate, author of a best-selling Manual de literatura (Literature textbook, 1844) was very much involved in developing the education system which would then adopt his own textbook. This introductory paragraph serves to reflect on the objective and targets of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula. Since there are not many university departments (and of course not any primary or secondary schools) that offer a subject on Iberian literatures — or, as the title puts it, literatures in the Iberian Peninsula — it cannot aspire to become a bestselling textbook as Gil y Zárate’s; it can, however, as Amador de los Ríos’s Historia, reclaim the honor of being the first of its kind: the first comprehensive history of Iberian literatures to be published with a comprehensive scope and a truly supranational foundation. In fact, one of the values of this history is that it validates and gives visibility to an academic field that deals specifically with literatures and cultures in the Iberian Peninsula (and I will return to the distinction between literatures and cultures later on). This field has been tentatively named Iberian studies, especially since the publication of Joan Ramon Resina’s From Hispanism to Iberian studies (2009), and has had quite a rapid development in recent years, both in Iberia and outside of it. Of course, A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula is integrated in a wider and more ambitious project: the comparative history of literatures in European languages (CHLEL) project, coordinated by the International Comparative Literature Association, which includes works on Sub-Saharan Africa, on the Caribbean, and on Eastern and Central Europe, and also a chronological series devoted to specific periods, from Renaissance to Modernism; it cannot, therefore, be exclusively linked to the appearance of Iberian studies. On the contrary, it could be argued that both this comparative literary history series by the ICLA and the recent prominence of Iberian studies are representative of a wider tendency within comparative literature: the turn toward space as an object (or as a trait that defines objects), and more specifically the renewal of area studies, which have reappeared, very different from their Cold War origins, as an alternative to both hegemonic national narration, and to the global pull manifested, in the doi 10.1075/chlel.29.55per © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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arena of literary studies, by the recent preeminence of world literature. This is, for instance, the take on area studies proposed by Christopher Bush (2014) in his article for the ACLA “State of the discipline report”: “Area Studies: Bigger than the Nation, Smaller than the World” (although I would argue that area studies may be both bigger and smaller than the nation, or that they are, in fact, an alternative kind of discourse other than the nation). There are, of course, other reasons why Spanish and Portuguese (and Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc.) literatures and cultures are now being studied from a new transnational perspective: the end of both Estado Novo and Francoism (combined with the disappearance of the overseas empire in the Portuguese case) gave way to a new period of interrelation among neighbors, and the integration of both countries into the European Union contributed to a new reflection on their own identities in relation to the continent they (peripherally) belong to, and to the world (of which, for instance, Eduardo Lourenço’s works are a prototypical example). This change in the Iberian geopolitical space also opened the possibility of new dialogues and collaborations across borders, and also of new readings of the past which stressed (or at least did not hide) the common elements. It should also be pointed out that, from an academic or scientific point of view, we appear to be witnessing a period of crisis or self-awareness in Hispanism (and, to some extent, also in Portuguese or Lusophone studies), which calls for new theoretical and methodological approaches: apart from Joan Ramon Resina’s work, other publications such as Ideologies of Hispanism (Moraña 2005), Spain beyond Spain (Epps & Cifuentes 2005), New Spain, new literatures (Martín-Estudillo & Spadaccini 2010b), Un hispanismo para el siglo XXI (Cornejo Parriego 2011) or Nuevos hispanismos. Para una crítica del lenguaje dominante (Ortega 2012) indicate a trend of renewal of Hispanic literary studies which depart from or question long-established traditions and practices. A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula is therefore timely in several different ways: within the wider project of comparative literary histories promoted by the ICLA, it responds to the general trend toward transnational literary studies; but also, within its Iberian context, it constitutes a significant milestone in the development and consolidation of the field of comparative Iberian studies and in the conscious reconsideration of both Portuguese and Hispanic studies.

Comparative, transnational, or systemic literary history The editorial team declares, in the Introduction to the first volume, that “the objective [of this work] was […] to present a particular situation in order to reveal a fundamental factor in the understanding of the Iberian Peninsula as a complex and dynamic framework of interliterary relations” (Cabo Aseguinolaza, Abuín González & Domínguez 2010, xii). After this declaration of principles, it is impossible not to think of Franca Sinopoli when she states that the object of comparative literary history is “the network of interactions among several literatures” (1999, 1). On the other hand, in the Preface to the first volume of this history, Margaret R. Higonnet argues that “as comparatists, literary historians observe phenomena such as genres, themes, styles, narrative structures, and reception that flow across national boundaries” (2010, ix). Both definitions of the objects for comparative literary history have of course common elements, but

A view from comparative history, II655 they point toward different approaches to transnational phenomena: the first trend, as proposed by Sinopoli, relates to the concept of an (inter)literary (poly)system, therefore considering space not as a homogeneous vacuum but as a network of interrelations and interferences; on the other hand, the second approach tends toward the search for supranational traits in literature which, at the highest level, would lead to so-called literary universals (motifs, genres, techniques, etc.). These two conceptions of comparative literary history (as the search for transnational phenomena, or as the study of the complexities of transnational cultural systems) are present in A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula. Not only that: I would suggest that these two approaches overlap with another divergence in the conceptualization of the Iberian Peninsula. I refer specifically to the tendency to treat the Iberian Peninsula as a homogeneous unity (as if every point of it was, so to speak, identically close to the center), and the tendency to treat it as a complex multilayered net in which centers and peripheries abound. The section on literary genres in the present volume is, I think, a good example of the first approach to an Iberian literary history: in it, the Iberian Peninsula appears as a continuum, so to speak, so that examples of each of the studied genres can be picked from any Iberian literature almost indistinctively. The fact that several of the chapters in this section are entitled with just the name of the genre they study (“The Pastoral romance,” “The historical novel,” etc.) is a sign of this tendency, although other chapters, especially the one by José Camões on Iberian theatre, are much closer to a systemic approach. On the other hand, the sections that deal with “Multilingualism and literature,” with “Images of national identity in the literatures of the Iberian Peninsula” and with “Forms of mediation” deal more explicitly with what Franca Sinopoli calls “the network of interactions among several literatures” (although “literatures” appears to be a restrictive term to describe the content of these chapters, which have a much wider historical, sociological, and cultural approach). For instance, the chapters devoted to the formation of Galician identity, or to the relation between Catalonian self-image and Castile as its counterpoint, exemplify the kind of tensions between centers and peripheries (which, in turn, also create centers and peripheries) that characterize the interferences between linguistic, literary, and cultural systems. It is also possible to find chapters that go in the opposite directions: that deal with literary phenomena that do not go beyond the linguistic, cultural, or national borders: most of the articles contained in the section on “Cities, cultural centers and enclaves” in Volume 1 are devoted, explicitly, to one spatial object, be it a city like Bilbao, a region like southern Spain or a whole literary system like Catalonia. However, one of the biggest originalities of this publication lies specifically in its treatment of Iberian diversity, because, as Higonnet explains in the Preface, “attention has been given to ‘minor’ literatures and marginalized phenomena,” which means not only including Basque, Galician, and Catalan literatures together with the Spanish and Portuguese ones, but also to attend to languages, communities, and authors that were until now absent from even the most comprehensive literary histories. This is especially true when it refers to the treatment of the Iberian “others,” which are most usually absent from considerations about Iberian literatures or cultures, using the methodology of imagology as a complement and as a source for comparative literary history. I refer especially to the chapters devoted to the images of gypsies, Jews, Africans and Indians, and modern-day immigrants in the first section of this second volume. It is clear, in any case, that the “comparative” in the title of this work must be understood as a multilayered, comprehensive, and transnational perspective on the Iberian geocultural space,

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and not in the strict sense of binary comparison between two elements (the Spanish and the Portuguese, for instance). Rather, as Helena Buescu puts it referring, in her case, to world literature, “the comparatist perspective I defend […] allows us to pass from a contrastive and binary vision […] to a more prismatic vision, in which the exclusivistic gesture makes no sense” (2013, 16). It is in that sense of a prismatic approach to Iberian identities and cultures, that we can say that this is in fact a comparative history.

The de-naturalization of space It is almost unnecessary to insist, at this stage, on the insufficiency of national literary histories to explain the complexity of literary phenomena, especially when contemporary national divisions are artificially expanded toward the past, to periods when these divisions make no sense at all. Claudio Guillén summarized it when he stated that “as an object for literary history, national literature is, in most cases, from a historic-literary perspective, not only an insufficient institution […] but also a spurious and fraudulent one” (1989, 235). The chapter written by Fernando Cabo in the first volume of this History also shows to what extent so-called “national characters,” as well as the literary canons and histories they supposedly inspire, are based on historical and ideological constructs. In fact, one of the explicit objectives of this work is “to question the foundations of national literatures by consciously challenging them with complex case studies” (Cabo Aseguinolaza, Abuín González & Domínguez 2010, xii), a deconstruction of national literatures that can be made for its own sake, or in the name of other supranational entities such as Iberian literature (as is the case here), European literature, or world literature, among others. It would be a mistake, however, to think that by merely substituting these national borders by other supranational ones, all arbitrariness disappears, especially in those cases when (as happens with the Iberian Peninsula) there exists a fiction of “natural geographical borders” which can then be extrapolated to history, language, literature, culture, etc. The question is not if the Iberian Peninsula exists, as a geographical term and even as shared meta-geography; but if it exists as a cultural system with enough coherence and cohesion to constitute a scientific and academic object. The danger of deconstructing one (or more) essentialism by constructing an alternative one, and then presenting this second one as natural or self-evident, is one that must be fought when dealing with any manifestation of area studies. The authors of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula are very aware of that danger, which is specifically tackled in César Domínguez’s chapter in the first volume. The introduction already states that they are “conscious of the controversial character of the chosen geographic framework,” but that “this project stems from a historical recognition of the Iberian Peninsula as a supranational whole” (Cabo Aseguinolaza, Abuín González & Domínguez 2010, xii). The question still remains whether the Iberian cultural system is transformed into the object of this comparative history because it is, indeed, a cultural (sub)system with stronger literary and cultural ties than the rest of the European (or Western, or world) literary system (not because of the existence of any metaphysical or ahistorical essentialism, but for historical, geocultural and political reasons); or if it is an arbitrarily chosen subsection of the “Republic of letters,” as valid and, at the same time, as questionable, as national literatures, and which finds its own confirmation, circularly, in the existence of this history and of an academic field specifically devoted to it.

A view from comparative history, II657 In other words: if its foundations are cultural and historical, or merely methodological. (This is a question that also applies to the other volumes of the series coordinated by the ICLA, devoted to the South-Sahara, to the Caribbean, or to Eastern and Central Europe, and which has been answered differently depending on the case). The Introduction to the first volume offers a somewhat elliptical solution to the question, when it states that the Iberian Peninsula is “perceived as a possible community, not only from its interior but rather from an external and distanced position which defines it in relation to the concepts of European or world Literature” (Cabo Aseguinolaza, Abuín González & Domínguez 2010, xii; emphasis added). In a similar fashion, Arturo Casas, following both Itamar Even-Zohar’s polysystem theory and Dionýz Ďurišin’s concept of interliterariness, defended in 2003 that “the Iberian geocultural space could be studied as an example of (macro)polysystem, understood […] as a group of national literatures which are historically linked and which maintain among themselves a series of hierarchic relations and fluxes of repertories or interferences” (2003b, 73–74). Domínguez, on the other hand, has argued against “the danger of transforming spaces into natural entities” (2007b, 78), precisely in the context of a revision of the application of Ďurišin’s interliterary theory to the Iberian context. I, myself, tended toward the methodological definition of the object, when in 2013 I tentatively defined Iberian studies as “the consistent and deliberate consideration of the Iberian Peninsula as an interconnected, multilingual and multicultural political, identitarian and (of course) literary polisystem” (Pérez Isasi 2013, 11), thus stressing the perspective of the observer rather than the object itself. Of course, even if we choose the first answer to this question, i.e., if we believe that there are in fact historical and cultural reasons that justify adopting the Iberian geocultural space as an object of study, this does not mean that we must completely sever it from other cultural systems: it is not impossible to think of a literary work, or a wider set of literary phenomena, as having multiple refractions, to paraphrase David Damrosch (2003), from the local to the global, with many other intermediate steps (regional, Iberian, European, Atlantic, Lusophone, etc.). On the other hand, even if there have been, obviously, periods in history in which literary and cultural relations among the different entities that compose the Iberian geocultural system were less intense (for instance, between Portugal and Spain during Francoism and Salazarism), this does not invalidate the existence of a common interliterary system: as Juan Miguel Ribera Llopis has shown in his works, a negative kind of relationship (for example, the tensions between Catalan and Castilian literary elites by the end of the nineteenth century) is still a kind of literary or cultural relation, susceptible of being studied, explained, and integrated into a wider framework; interliterary systems, in this sense, should not be considered as static entities solely identifiable in moments of extreme interconnection, but as a complex flow of interferences which vary throughout the centuries, shaping and reshaping themselves, and which also interrelate with other cultural systems in various and complex ways. The editorial team and contributors of this history are very conscious of the inextricable web of interrelations that link the literatures in the Iberian Peninsula with other cultural systems: the introduction itself claims that one of the objects of the book (always with the aim of challenging national literatures) are “a-national literatures, such as those written in Hebrew or Arabic, or those that point towards an extra-Peninsular dimension: Hispano-American or African Lusophone literatures” (Cabo Aseguinolaza, Abuín González & Domínguez 2010, xii). There are even some chapters — and this is by no means accidental or arbitrary — that study

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literary phenomena produced outside the Iberian Peninsula, thus apparently contradicting the title of the volumes. To what extent can we say, for instance, that the literature written in Iparralde (the French Basque Country), as analyzed by Ur Apalategui in a fascinating and much needed essay, is part of the “literatures of the Iberian Peninsula,” if it is written in southern France, and looks towards Paris for most of its historical development? But at the same time, is it possible to exclude it, considering its formidable links with the literature from the Spanish Basque Country, not only because they share a common language, but because they are intertwined throughout history? The same could be said, of course, about the chapter dealing with the Canary Islands, which may be part of the Spanish state, but which are not “in the Iberian Peninsula.” The case of Gibraltar, pointed out by Domínguez in his chapter in Volume 1 (since Gibraltar is in Iberia, but it is never considered Iberian) offers a perfect example of the opposite contradiction, when mere geographic existence does not seem to be enough to grant cultural inclusion. I do not point out these cases, or other extremely interesting chapters like the one written by Inocência Mata on “The construction of the literary city,” in order to criticize the contributors or the editorial team for not strictly sticking with the object designed by the title; on the contrary, these kind of supposed contradictions are linked to the very core of the questioning of a naturalization of the idea of space as a foundation for the definition of academic or scientific objects. It is not as if a term like “Iberian Peninsula” was so self-evident that it annihilated all the problems and contradictions created by national literatures; on the contrary: the setting of new boundaries to the study object will always raise questions about its validity, about the limits it sets, the connections it severs or hides, and about what it leaves out by declaring what belongs inside of it.

A history without story In 1967, Hans Robert Jauss opined that “in our time literary history has increasingly fallen into disrepute, and not at all without reason” (1970, 7); in 1973, René Wellek wrote a much-quoted text, which opened with Jauss’s words, entitled “The fall of literary history” (Wellek 1982). “Literary history is in a state of ferment and crisis, not for the first time,” wrote David Perkins in his introduction to Theoretical issues in literary history in 1991 (6). It appears as if literary history (just as much as literary theory or comparative literature) is a field in a perpetual state of crisis, always on the edge and never yet falling down the cliff. The fact is that literary histories (or at least, works with that title, like this one) continue to be written and published, and they continue to be one of the essential (if not the essential) tools for literary teachers and students at every level of education. In the words of Lawrence Lipking, “the impossibility of writing [literary histories] does not stop scholars from trying and often succeeding. Despite the uncertainty of its terms and its grounds, the writing of literary history remains a fascinating and deeply satisfying practice” (1995, 12). Yet, it is undeniable that literary histories are in crisis, if we understand crisis in the sense of transformation, and not decay. All aspects of literary history are put into question: its object (the idea of “literature” it embodies, of which I will speak in the next section), its traditional national limits (as explained in the previous section), and of course its methodology, in which what Paul Ricoeur calls “the eclipse of narrative” (1984, 95–120), which applies to historical studies in general, has had a great impact.

A view from comparative history, II659 I do not have the space — or the strength — to tackle here in depth the theoretical and methodological consequences of this “eclipse of narrative,” but I would like to distinguish three possible ways to understand the questioning of the relation between time and history: as a crisis of the narrative model (or models, as studied and defined by Hayden White in works such as Metahistory or The content of the form) applied to historical studies; as a questioning of the historical study of literary objects — as opposed to their consideration as textual monuments without context, or with no inherent connection to their context; and as a devaluation of time and chronology as the decisive factor in the configuration of (literary) histories, giving way to an at least partially spatial approach (as Cabo Aseguinolaza [2004, 21] points out). The configuration of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula would be impossible to understand without this crisis of the narrative form in history, which, in this case, also denies chronology a central role. In the words of the editors: “The point of departure was an explicit renunciation of those chronologically organic and narratively omniscient histories which attempt to cover all fields and periods” (Cabo Aseguinolaza, Abuín González & Domínguez 2010, ix); and later on: “the objective [of this work] was not so much to trace an exhaustive itinerary through the different literatures, from their origins up to the present” (xii). And in fact, the sections into which the history is divided (“Discourses on Iberian literary history,” “The Iberian Peninsula as a literary space,” “Multilingualism and literature,” “Dimensions of orality” and “Temporal frames and literary (inter-)systems,” in the first volume; “Images,” “Genres and repertoires,” “Forms of intermediation” and “Cultural studies and literary repertoires,” in the second one) seem to function as thematic clusters and, I would suggest, could be redistributed in a different order without any loss for the work as a whole — except for the first section, which serves as a theoretical and methodological threshold. I would like to point out, however, that even though in this introduction “narrative” and “chronology” appear to be linked together, it is not impossible to have the second one without the first one: it is not impossible to imagine a non-narrative history which does include a chronological configuration of some sort. In fact, Part 1 of Volume 1 of Marcel Cornis-Pope and John Neubauer’s History of the literary cultures of East-Central Europe organizes itself around chronological “nodes of political time,” thus offering a model of non-narrative history in which chronology is not completely absent, while at the same time stressing the historical (contextual or political) implications of literary history. It could also be argued that the collective, and therefore fragmentary, nature of this history explains the absence of an “omniscient entity” to guide the reading of the past; however, recent literary histories like the History of Spanish literature coordinated by José Carlos Mainer for Crítica or Patricio Urquizu’s History of Basque literature are collective, while maintaining not only a chronological disposition, but also, to some extent, a strong narrative component. Of course, this does not mean that chronology, and even narration, are completely absent from A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula: they are traceable in specific chapters and sections, such as Santiago Díaz Lage’s or Antón Figueroa and Elias J. Torres Feijó’s. In the first volume, the section on “Temporal frames and literary (inter)-systems” is the one in which the historical approach to literary phenomena is more evident, and also the one in which it is easier to identify a chronological configuration, from medieval times (in Fernando Gómez Redondo’s chapter) to contemporary Iberia (in Randolph D. Pope’s). Considered individually, this section could be described as a fragmentary and non-narrative, but still chronological, history of the Iberian cultural system in relation to its geopolitical context.

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This conscious decision on the part of the editors to organize the volumes around theoretical or methodological clusters is coherent with their objective of subverting the traditional models of literary history; it is a pioneer effort — to my knowledge, at least — in the field of Iberian literatures, and it stands out in the Spanish and Portuguese academic fields, in comparison to recent efforts of collaborative literary histories which have maintained a more classical approach in relation to the disposition of their objects (and also with the selection of their object, but that is another matter, which I will discuss in the following section). My only concern is, again, a terminological one: why do we keep using “history” to name a work without any chronological or narrative configuration? What is it that distinguishes this project from other collective, monographic volumes devoted to Iberian literatures published recently? Is it the existence of a common effort of reconsideration of the Iberian cultural system from past to present that guides all the sections and chapters, or the common reflection and self-awareness of all of the authors and section coordinators on the theoretical and methodological bases of the project? That which we call a history, would it be recognizable as such if we gave it any other name?

From literary to cultural history In the words of Anxo Abuín González, in his introduction to the section on Iberian cultural studies, “Literary studies in the Iberian Peninsula are resistant to significant change.” It is difficult not to agree with this statement, or with some of the reasons he enunciates to explain it, in particular the conservative strength of university departments, with a tendency to keep the division between “national” literatures and cultures; between literary and other artistic forms; and between so-called “high culture” and “popular culture.” (In this sense, I wonder if maintaining the distinction itself, even with the purpose of questioning it, is not a sign of its power, and if this cultural approach to literary history should not permeate all other sections of this history, instead of being confined to this specific one.) It would be unfair, of course, to ignore the efforts of specific scholars or groups that have developed groundbreaking work in the field of cultural studies, which has done a great deal to overcome this barrier in the past decades, and which has come more from the fields of literary theory or comparative literature rather than from Hispanic or Portuguese Literature departments. In his introduction, Anxo Abuín González mentions, among others, the groups SELITEN@T from the Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia, or Hermeneia from the Universitat de Barcelona; this compensates, at least partially, for the fact that there is no chapter devoted to digital literature in this section, which I find a little surprising. I would also like to mention the work carried out by the Centro de Estudos Comparatistas from the Universidade de Lisboa, founded and directed by Helena Buescu from 1998 to 2013, and by Manuela Ribeiro Sanches since 2013, which has worked intensely and extensively to break down academic and scientific barriers, with groups and projects devoted to transnational literary studies, interdisciplinary approaches to literature, intermedia studies, and post-colonial studies, among many others. The section dealing with popular culture is, in fact, one of the innovative elements of this history, following, at least partially, the considerations of Steven Tötösy de Zepetnek when he advocates for comparative cultural studies (2003, 235–67). Even so, the literary or, better said, textual approach to culture is still evident in this section, with some chapters specifically devoted

A view from comparative history, II661 to narrative genres (for instance, those written by David Viñas Piquer or Germán Sierra), and others in which literature is one member of a pair with other media or arts (e.g., music and literature in the case of Joan-Elies Adell’s and literature and script in Virginia Guarinos’s chapters). This predominance of text and literature as the primary source for research or comparison can be explained by the origin of these volumes (they are, of course, the endeavor of an association of comparative literature), which in turn conditions the choice of experts to be included in it; or by the trends of cultural studies which have, indeed, appeared in Iberian cultural studies, which still derive from a tradition of text-driven scholars. In any case, I wonder if this selection of topics — independent of the high quality of the contributions, which is beyond doubt — represents to its highest extent the potentialities of cultural studies when applied to the Iberian geocultural space. Even if they appear in different volumes, I feel that a link should be established between this section and the one on oral literature from the first volume. As Paloma Díaz-Mas states in her introduction: “Literature which is transmitted orally has traditionally not been included within the literary canon. […] Even today there are specialists in literary studies who believe that the denomination of oral literature is an oxymoron” (2010, 475). In this sense, the inclusion of a section on “Dimensions of orality” in a history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula may be a form of comparative cultural history, or at least a questioning of the traditional limits of what we call “literature.” Of course, Iberian literary history has always reserved a special place for oral literature, or better said, traditional literature in which, again, according to Díaz-Mas’s definition “receivers memorize the text in order to transmit it, and this process repeats itself over time establishing a chain of broadcasters-receivers which may go back centuries” (2010, 478). The romances or medieval epic/lyric ballads have been, since the birth of modern literary history itself, one of the key elements of the Iberian canon, more so after the monumental work of Ramón Menéndez Pidal and his school. This, however, excludes other forms of orality which do not share with the romances their traditional aspect, as well as their written fixation at some point of the process. This treatment of orality in the European and Iberian traditions is in sharp contrast with the case of Basque literature, which is paradoxically absent from this section on orality. In the (short) tradition of Basque literary history, oral literature (both traditional literature and oral improvisation) occupy a very significant space. Koldo Mitxelena’s Historia de la literatura vasca (History of Basque literature; published in 1960, it was the first history of its kind to be published) opens with a short chapter in which the richness of Basque oral literature is favorably compared with that of other neighboring literatures; this became a standard procedure for almost all Basque literary histories, and in the following decades the relevance of oral literature would increase even further: for instance, the History of Basque literature coordinated by Patricio Urquizu (2000) includes an initial 100-page chapter on oral literature, to which we should add the pages devoted to bertsolarismo (improvised oral poetry) in the chapters on nineteenth- and twentieth-century literature. This predominance of oral productions within Basque literature may of course be explained as a compensatory mechanism, destined to provide a long-dating tradition in a geocultural space where there are very few written productions to go back to (although the scarcity of Basque literature has also been somewhat exaggerated). Both the inclusion of a section on cultural studies, and of a whole section on forms of orality in the Iberian context (even with the exclusion of the Basque oral tradition, as I mentioned), are forms of questioning the established Iberian canon, not as much in relation to its content but with

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its boundaries and external limits. Firstly, the concept of “literature” is challenged by the inclusion of oral and popular literature, which are traditionally excluded in favor of written high culture (“traditional culture” being the only so-called “popular” genre to be considered worthy of the canon, after a process of fixation and monumentalization, so to speak); secondly, the prevalence of literature as a privileged cultural object is confronted with productions in other media such as radio, graphic novels, or cinema (and potentially with digital media too). Of course, this history cannot exhaustively explore all those fields, but it poses questions that Spanish and Portuguese studies seem to be reluctant to answer.

Open doors to future paths In the previous pages I have tried to review and analyze some of the key elements in the configuration of A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula, pointing out its most original aspects and also posing some questions which, in my opinion, remain unanswered, maybe because, paraphrasing Luis Cernuda, they are questions whose answers do not exist. In these final paragraphs, I would like to end by stressing the paths that this history opens up, in relation to the field of comparative literary history, and more specifically in relation to Iberian studies. 1. One of the first and most obviously innovative aspects of this history is that it challenges the established national boundaries in the study of literature, promoting a transnational, comparative perspective that does not exclude the existence of national literary systems, but stresses their connection with other geocultural spaces, and, more importantly, it denies any attempt at homogenization, be it linguistic, cultural, or political. The deconstruction of national identities as basis for the construction of literary histories, without substituting any other supranational essentialism, opens the opportunity to look at the complexity of literary objects without aprioristically rejecting any of them for not conforming to the national language and national character. At the same time, this multilingual, transnational, interliterary approach to literature recovers linguistic and literary productions and phenomena which have traditionally been excluded from literary histories. 2. This history also questions the strong tradition of literary (i.e. textual) studies in Spanish and Portuguese academia, which denies the possibility of considering it in relation with other cultural and artistic productions in a systemic, comparative, and transmedia approach, in which literature does not necessarily have a privileged location. The influence of cultural studies, still limited in the Iberian context, manifests itself in this history in the erasure of the frontier between high and popular culture, including oral literature, thus incorporating into the object of literary studies a great number of products that offer significant and relevant information about the functioning of the cultural system. 3. These two volumes also constitute a pioneering attempt, in the context of Iberian literatures and cultures, of exploring non-traditional methodologies regarding the practice of literary history. The “eclipse of narrative” is in this case complete, and extends itself to the abandonment of chronology as a structuring principle of the work, although it does appear as a topic of reflection and as an axis that organizes specific chapters and sections. This places this work in the trend

A view from comparative history, II663 of spatialization of literary history, although space, as we have seen, does not stand in any case as a self-evident, unproblematic criterion. This, of course, poses questions about the specificity of literary history as a scientific field, as a practice, and as a methodology, although it does not invalidate its obvious potential as a privileged tool for educational purposes. 4. The denial of narration as the basis for historical discourse does not imply an ahistorical (i.e., decontextualized or merely aesthetic) approach to literary objects. In fact, this history places the Iberian (inter)literary (poly)system as its main object of study (although this is not equally clear in all sections and chapters of the two volumes), therefore requiring us to consider it in relation with historical, political, and cultural context, and to take into account its relation with other cultural systems, such as the European, the Atlantic, the Lusophone, or the world literary systems. 5. Finally, from the point of view of its scientific and academic location, this history locates itself as a milestone in the formation and consolidation of Iberian studies, which are nothing more (and nothing less) than a manifestation of the current recovery of area studies, combined with specific political, historical, and academic conditions, both internal and external to the Iberian Peninsula. Just two years ago, in my attempt to establish a “state of the art and future perspectives” of the field of Iberian studies, I ended by establishing three requirements for future Iberian studies: “theoretical reflections on their specificity, their methodologies, and the specific set(s) of phenomena with which they work; networks of communication that allow scholars working in this area to communicate with each other; and some level of institutional recognition” (Pérez Isasi 2013, 24). A comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula fulfills all three requirements, thus constituting itself as a foundational stepping stone in its field.

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Ytzchak, Meir Ben. 2008. Maimónides (1125–1204). La vigencia de su mensaje. Cuadernos Judaicos 25:93–120. Zapata, Luis. 1981. Carlo Famoso. 1566. A facsimile of the princeps with an introduction by Manuel Terrón ­Albarrán. Badajoz: Institución Pedro de Valencia – Diputación Provincial de Badajoz. Zarri, Gabriella. 2008. Storia della direzione spirituale. III. L’età moderna. Brescia: Morcelliana. Zarri, Gabriella. 2009. Libri di spirito. Editoria religiosa in volgare nei secoli XV–XVII. Turin: Rosenberg & Seller, 2009. Zavala, Iris M., ed. 1993–2000. Breve historia feminista de la literatura española (en lengua castellana). 5 vols. Madrid: Anthropos. Ziga, Itziar. 2009. Devenir perra. Barcelona: Melusina. Ziga, Itziar. 2011. Sexual Herria. Tafalla: Txalaparta. Ziino, Francesca. 1998. Some vernacular versions of Boethius’s De consolatione Philosophiae in medieval Spain: Notes on their relationship with the commentary tradition. Carmina Philosophiae. Journal of the international Boethius society 7:37–65. Zinato, Andrea. 1992. Volgarizzamenti delle Epistulae Morales di L. A. Seneca e loro diffusione nella Peninsola Iberica. Annali di Ca’ Foscari 31: 371–90. Zinato, Andrea. 1994. Le traduzioni catalane di opere di Seneca e loro influsso sulle traduzioni castigliane. In: La cultura catalana tra l’Umanesimo e il Barocco, ed. C. Romero & R. Arqués, 175–84. Padova: Programma. Zovko, Maja. 2009. La imagen del inmigrante en la novela española actual. In Altre modernità 2:163–72. (accessed December 22, 2009.) Zuckerman, Albert. 1994. Writing the blockbuster novel. New York: Writer’s Digest Books. Zúñiga, Juan Eduardo. 2004. Capital de la Gloria. Madrid: Santillana. Zurita, Marciano. 1920. Historia del género chico. Madrid: Prensa Popular.

Bioprofiles Anxo Abuín González is associate professor of comparative literature at the Universidade de Santiago de Compostela. His research fields include theory of drama and performance studies, both of them in relation to cinema and new technologies. His last books are El narrador en el teatro (1997), Escenarios del caos (2006), and El teatro en el cine (2012). Currently he is the research leader of the project “Narrativas Cruzadas: hibridación, transmedialidad y performatividad.” Maria Fernanda de Abreu (Universidade Nova de Lisboa) is associate professor of Spanish studies. She is the coordinator of the research group “Culture, History and Ideas in the Iberian and Ibero-American World.” She has been a member of the board of the Asociación Internacional de Hispanistas and Asociación de Cervantistas. She has taught in universities in France, Spain, Italy, and Brasil. Her last publications include Cervantes no Romantismo Português. Cavaleiros Andantes, Manuscritos Encontrados e Gargalhadas Moralíssimas (1994) and “Iberia in Search for a Literary Identity: A Stone Raft?” (2004). She has been visiting scholar at Harvard in 1989–90 and felow research at Brown in 2007. She is a “miembro de honor” of the Asociación de Cervantistas (2015) and “miembro correspondiente” of the RAE (2016). Joan-Elies Adell has been professor of literary theory at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya. He is now the director of the Representació de la Generalitat de Catalunya in Alguer. His works include several essays on the relations between music and digital culture. He has also published several poetry collections. Isabel Almeida (Universidade de Lisboa) is associate professor of Portuguese and Italian literatures. In her PhD dissertation (1998) she studied Portuguese books of chivalry. She has extensively published on Luís de Camões, Jorge Ferreira de Vasconcelos, and Padre António Vieira. She is a member of the Centro Interuniversitário de Estudos Camonianos. Ur Apalategi is associate professor of Basque studies at the Université de Pau et des Pays de l’Adour, France, and is a member of the IKER-UMR 5478 research laboratory. His books include La Naissance de l’écrivain basque (2000) and L’Autre écrivain basque (2013). In 2001, he created the series “Kritika Literarioa.” He is a creative writer as well, and has published two novels (one of which has been translated into Spanish) and a compilation of short stories in the Basque language entitled Fikzioaren izterrak (Euskadi Award 2011). Samuel G. Armistead (1927–2013) was a prominent philologist, ethnographer, and folklorist, and was professor emeritus of the University of California-Davis. He is considered one of the most notable American Hispanist scholars. His studies are especially focused in medieval Spanish epics, Hispanic folk literature, Sephardic ballad, comparative literature, and folklore. He published (alone or in collaboration with his colleagues Joseph H. Silverman and Israel J. Katz) more than 500 articles and 30 books, among them El Romancero judeo-español en el Archivo Menéndez Pidal (Catálogo-índice de romances y canciones) (1978), En torno al romancero sefardí: hispanismo y balcanismo de la tradición judeo-española (1982), La tradición épica de las mocedades de Rodrigo (2000), and several volumes on Sephardic ballads in the series Folk Literature of the Sephardic Jews (1971–2008).

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Raquel Bello Vázquez obtained her PhD in Philology (2005) with the dissertation “A Certain Ambition of Glory. Teresa de Mello Breyner in the Intellectual Field and the Field of Power in Portugal (1770–1798).” She has published on the cultural fields in both Galicia and Portugal during the Enlightenment, women writers in the eighteenth century, and the field and systemic theories applied to the same period. More recently, she has been working on the impacts of tourism in the identity building in Santiago de Compostela as a World Heritage Site. Irene Bertuzzi holds a PhD in Hispanic studies awarded by the Universidade of Santiago de Compostela, where she specialized in medieval and Golden Age literature. She has published papers about issues concerning the textual transmission of Francisco de Quevedo’s Sueños and edited the hagiographic poem La vida de sant Alifonso por metros. Francesca Blockeel (University of Leuven, Belgium) is assistant professor of Spanish and translation at the Faculty of Arts (Campus Antwerp) and of Portuguese (Campus Leuven). In 2000 she earned her PhD from the University of Leuven, Belgium, on identity and alterity in contemporary Portuguese youth literature. Her most recent book is Literatura Juvenil Portuguesa Contemporânea: Identidade e Alteridade (2001). Her main areas of interest are nationalism, cultural identity of the Iberian Peninsula, Spanish and Portuguese youth literature, imagology, and the Spanish Civil War. Enric Bou (Università Ca’ Foscari Venezia) is professor of Iberian studies. He has taught in universities in France, Spain, and the USA. His research interests, always from a comparative literature perspective, cover a broad range of twentieth-century Spanish Peninsular and Catalan literature including poetry, autobiography, the relationships between art and literature, city and literature, and film. His publications include, Papers privats. Assaig sobre les formes literàries autobiogràfiques (1993), Pintura en el aire, Arte y literatura en la modernidad hispánica (2001), two editions of letters by Pedro Salinas, Cartas de viaje (Pre-Textos, 1996), and Cartas a Katherine Whitmore. (1932–1947) (2002). His latests books are Daliccionario. Objetos, mitos y símbolos de Salvador Dalí (2004), the edition of Pedro Salinas’ Obras Completas (3 vols., 2007), Panorama crític de la literatura catalana. VI. Segle XX. De la postguerra a l’actualitat (2009), Panorama crític de la literatura catalana. V. Segle XX. Modernisme, Noucentisme, Avantguarda (2010), and Invention of Space. City, Travel and Literature / La invenció de l’espai. Ciutat i viatge (2013). Maria João Brilhante (Universidade de Lisboa) is associate professor at FLUL. She directed the Centro de Estudos de Teatro (CET-FLUL) in 1996–2000 and 2004–08. She was, from 2008 until 2011, President of the Administration of the National Theatre D. Maria II and a member of the Prix Europe pour le Théâtre. She has published essays, and organised books on literature, theatre translation, theatre iconography, and Portuguese theatre history and drama. Tobias Brandenberger (Georg-August-Universität Göttingen, Germany) is professor of romance philology (Spanish and Portuguese literature). He earned a PhD in Ibero-romance Philology from the University of Basel (Switzerland) with a thesis about gender roles and the discourse on marriage in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (Literatura de matrimonio – Península Ibérica, s. XIV–XVI, 1996), his main research areas are intra-Iberian cultural relations and imagologies, literary gender studies, and intermediality (literature and music). In these areas he has published numerous studies and edited, among others: España y Portugal – Antagonismos literarios e históricos (ss. XVI–XVIII); Portugal und Spanien: Probleme (k)einer Beziehung / Portugal e Espanha:

Bioprofiles725 Encontros e desencontros (with Henry Thorau); A construção do outro: Espanha e Portugal frente a frente (with Elisabeth Hasse and Lydia Schmuck); Deseos, juegos, camuflaje: los estudios de género y queer y las literaturas hispánicas de la Edad Media a la Ilustración (with Henriette Partzsch); Dimensiones y desafíos de la zarzuela. He recently published the monograph La muerte de la ficción sentimental. Transformaciones de un género iberorrománico (2012). María Jesús Fariña Busto is professor of Latin American literature at Universidade de Vigo. She has organized many courses and seminars on feminist and gender studies. A member of the research group “Feminist Theories and Queer Theory,” her research interests, within the framework of feminist theories and criticism, continue to focus on the representation of the body, sexuality, and violence, especially in texts by Latin American women writers. Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza is a professor of theory of literature and comparative literature at the Universidade of Santiago de Compostela. He has edited a number of texts from Spanish Golden Age literature, such as El guitón Onofre (1988), El Buscón (1993, 2011), and Execración contra los judíos (1996). He is also the author of El concepto de género y la picaresca (1992), Infancia y modernidad literaria (2001), and Manual de teoría de la literatura (2006), the latter along with María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar. His most recent book is El lugar de la literatura española (2012), which is part of the Historia de la literatura española, directed by José-Carlos Mainer. Currently, Fernando Cabo leads a research project with the title “The projection of place: Compostela and the Geoliteray Imaginary (1844–1926). Geographic Information Systems and Spatial Humanities.” José Camões (Universidade de Lisboa) is a visiting professor at the Faculty of Letters where he has been lecturing on history of the Portuguese theatre and theatrical editions in the doctoral program in theatre strudies since 1996. He is a member of the Centre for Theatre Studies at the University of Lisbon. He is currently working on a catalog and edition of Portuguese censored and forbidden theatre of the eighteenth century. For the National Printing House he has edited the complete works of Portuguese playwrights of the sixteenth century (2006–15). His main research fields are comparative studies in Iberian Peninsula drama of the Golden Age and digital humanities. Heike Scharm (University of South Florida) is associate professor of Spanish and transatlantic literature and culture. She is the author of El tiempo y el ser en Javier Marías. El ciclo de Oxford a la luz de Bergson y Heidegger (2013) and of several articles on contemporary thought (literature, philosophy, film, art). Her ongoing research focuses on postnational and comparative approaches, as well as on biocriticism, sustainability, ethics, and cosmopolitanism. She is currently preparing the volume ImagiNations: Postnational Perspectives on Hispanic Literature. Araceli Cañadas Ortega is assistant professor at the Universidad de Alcalá. Her research interests include history, language, and culture of Romani people. She has published, with Nicolás Jiménez González, Sar san? ¿Cómo estás? Curso de romanó (2011). Concepción Cascajosa Virino is associate professor at the Universidad Carlos III de Madrid, where she is a member of the research group TECMERIN and director of the MFA program in screenwriting. She has written three books and more than thirty papers about media history, including articles in Studies in Hispanic Cinemas, Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies, and Journal of European Television History and Culture.

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Laura Cavalcante-Padilha is professor emerita at the Universidade Federal Fluminense. Her research interests include African Literature in Portuguese language, Portuguese literature, and comparative literature. Some of her publications are Entre Voz e Letra (1985, second edition in 2007), Novos Pactos, Outras Ficções (2002), A poesia e a vida (2006), A Mulher em África (2007, with Inocência Mata), Lendo Angola (2008, with Margarida Calafate Ribeiro), and De Guerras e Violências (2011, with Renata Flávia da Silva). Isabel Clúa Ginés (Universitat de València) is assistant profesor at the Department of Theory of Languages and Communication Sciences, where she teaches literary theory and cultural studies. She is a member of the research group Creació i pensament de les dones (Universitat de Barcelona) and reseacher at the Centre Dona i Literatura (Universitat de Barcelona). Her work mainly focuses on the study of the mechanisms of construction of gender and identity in fin-desiècle European culture; she also investigates contemporary popular culture from the perspective of feminist cultural studies. She is editor of, among others, Género y cultura popular (2008), and coeditor with Helena González of Máxima audiencia. Cultura popular y género (2011). Since 2011 she has been co-director of the peer-reviewed journal Lectora. Revista de dones i textualitat. Xosé Manuel Dasilva (Universidade de Vigo) is associate professor of Portuguese literature. His main research interest concerns Camões studies. He is a member of the Centro Interuniversitário de Estudos Camonianos. He is the editor of several volumes of Perfiles de la traducción hispanoportuguesa and has published two volumes of Babel Ibérico. Antologia de textos críticos sobre la literature portugeuesa traducida en España, and Babel Ibérico. Antologia de textos críticos sobre a literatura espanhola traduzida em Portugal. Paloma Díaz-Mas (Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas) is senior researcher at the CSIC in Madrid and former professor at the Euskal Herriko Unibertsitatea. Her main research interests include Judeo-Spanish literature from the eighteenth to the twentieth century and Spanish oral literature (especially the ballads). She has published over one hundred articles and several books, including Sephardim. The Jews from Spain (1992), Los sefardíes y la poesía tradicional hispánica del siglo XVIII. El Cancionero de Abraham Israel (Gibraltar, 1761–1770) (2013, in collaboration with María Sánchez Pérez), Cartas sefardíes de Salónica. La Korespondensya (1906) (2014, in collaboration with Teresa Madrid Álvarez-Piñer), Judaísmo e Islam (2007, in collaboration with Cristina de la Puente), Romancero (1994, rpt. 2001 and 2005), and a critical edition of the Proverbios morales by Shem Tob de Carrión (1998, in collaboration with Carlos Mota). She has also participated in the edition of Celestina included in Biblioteca Clásica of the Spanish Royal Academy. Since 2006 she has headed a research project at the CSIC about Sephardic culture, one of whose products is the website Sefardiweb . Luis G. Díaz-Viana is senior researcher at the CSIC in Madrid, former associate professor at the Department of Anthropology, University of California-Berkeley, and former professor of social anthropology at the Universidad de Salamanca. Specialist in popular culture and oral literature, some of his publications include Aproximación Antropológica a Castilla y León (1988), Los guardianes de la tradición. Ensayos sobre la “invención” de la cultura popular (1999), Palabras para el pueblo. Aproximación general a la Literatura de Cordel (2000), El regreso de los lobos. La respuesta de las culturas populares a la era de la globalización (2003), Cancionero popular de la

Bioprofiles727 guerra civil española: Textos y melodías de los dos bandos (2007), Leyendas populares de España históricas, maravillosas y contemporáneas: de los antiguos mitos a los rumores por internet (2008), and Narración y memoria. Anotaciones para una antropología de la catástrofe (2013). Santiago Díaz Lage received his BA, MA, and PhD from the University of Santiago de Compostela, where he is currently a postdoctoral researcher. He has taught at the Universities of Rennes 2 (Haute-Bretagne), Santiago de Compostela and Vigo, and has been a visiting scholar at the University of Cambridge and the Université Paul Valéry – Montpellier 3. His work has focused on Spanish literature and culture of the nineteenth and twentieh centuries, and at present he is finishing a monograph on literary practices in the periodical press in nineteenth-century Spain. César Domínguez is associate professor of comparative literature at the University of Santiago de Compostela, where he holds the Jean Monnet Chair “The Culture of European Integration,” and honorary chair at Sichuan University. His teaching and research focuses upon the theory of comparative literature, European literature, translation, cosmopolitanism, and world literature. His four most recent books are World Literature: A Reader (2013), Literatura europea comparada (2013), Contemporary Developments in Emergent Literatures and the New Europe (2014), and Introducing Comparative Literature: New Trends and Applications (Routledge). José María Estellés González is a retired professor of classics at the Universitat de València. Cesc Esteve (Universitat de Barcelona) is a Ramón y Cajal Research fellow at the Department of Catalan Philology. He is a member of the research groups Seminario de poética del Renacimiento (spr.uab.cat) and Mimesi (stel.ub.edu/mimesi). His main research lines and works are devoted to literary history and theory, historical thought, and book censorship in Early Modernity. He is author and editor of several publications, which include Idea de la lírica en el Renacimiento (2004, with M. J. Vega), La invenció dels orígens. La història literària en la poètica del Renaixement (2008), Reading and Censorship in Early Modern Europe (2010, with M. J. Vega and J. Weiss), Las razones del censor. Control ideológico y censura de libros en la primera Edad Moderna (2013), and Disciplining History in Early Modern Spain (forthcoming). Sharon G. Feldman (University of Richmond) is professor of Spanish and Catalan studies and holds the William Judson Gaines Chair in modern foreign languages. She is a specialist in modern and contemporary theater. Her publications include In the Eye of the Storm: Contemporary Theater in Barcelona / A l’ull de l’huracà: Teatre català contemporani (2009). Her translations of Catalan plays have been staged and read at venues in Australia, Canada, England, Germany, Ireland, and the United States. She is a corresponding member of the Reial Acadèmia de Bones Lletres de Barcelona. Enrique Fernández Rivera is professor at the department of French, Spanish and Italian at the University of Manitoba, Canada. He has a PhD in Spanish literature from Princeton University (1998) and is a member the executive board of the Canadian Association of Hispanists. He has published several articles about the image of Madrid in novels such as Martín-Santos’ Tiempo de Silencio (1962). His latest book is Anxiety of interiority and dissection in early modern Spain (2015). He is presently writing a book on the five centuries of visual culture of La Celestina.

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Santiago Fernández Mosquera is professor of Spanish literature at the Universidade de Santiago de Compostela. He has edited Quevedo and Calderón de la Barca and published seventy articles and several monographs about the literature of the Spanish Golden Age, including La poesía amorosa de Quevedo, Quevedo: reescritura e intertextualidad, and La tormenta en el Siglo de Oro. He belongs to the Calderón Research Group. Luis Fernández Cifuentes received his BA from Madrid’s Universidad Complutense and his PhD from Princeton University, where he was hired as assistant professor in 1977 and promoted to associate professor in 1983. He is currently Robert S. and Ilse Friend Professor of Romance Languages and Literatures at Harvard University, where he was hired in 1988 and has twice been chair of the department. He has published books on early twentieth-century Spanish narrative and on the theatre of García Lorca, and has coedited books on different subjects, most recently, with Professor Brad Epps, on Spanish literary history, under the title Spain beyond Spain (2005). He has published more than seventy articles on different subjects and genres, from Torres Villarroel’s autobiography to Galdós’ novels, from travel literature to urban studies, from biography as a genre to the avatars of physiognomy in modern literature. He is currently working on a cultural history of the year 1955 in Spain. Antón Figueroa is Professor of French at the Universidade de Santiago de Compostela. His research focuses on literary sociology, with special attention to Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of champ littéraire. His books include Communication littéraire et culture en Galice (L’Harmattan, 1997), Nación, literatura, identidade (Xerais, 2001), Ideoloxía e autonomía no campo literario galego (Laiovento, 2010), and L’ Espace culturel transnational (Nouveau Monde, 2009). Lee Fontanella (WPI) is professor emeritus of Humanities and Arts and a critic and consultant in fine art and photography. He was Andrew Carnegie Centenary Professor for Scotland (2009) and, for nearly a quarter century, professor of Spanish literature and comparative literature at the University of Texas (Austin). The author of many books, chapters, and articles on photography and Spanish literature, Fontanella lectures in the United States and Europe, and he has had a screenplay produced and is writing another. He has curated museum shows for the Spanish government and done considerable consulting for museums in Europe.  José Luis Forneiro (University of Santiago de Compostela) is associate professor of Portuguese. He received his PhD from the Universidad Autónoma in Madrid, and was a member of the Menéndez Pidal Seminar of the Universidad Complutense and the Menéndez Pidal Foundation in Madrid (1984–99). He is the author of several publications on Galician traditional poetry, specially on ballads, among them the books El romancero tradicional de Galicia: una poesía entre dos lenguas (2000) and Allá em riba un rey tinha una filha. Galego e castelhano no romanceiro da Galiza (2004). In recent years his research has focused on the relationship between writing and orality in Galicia since the sixteenth century, dissemination of traditional ballads outside the Iberian Peninsula, and urban legends in Mozambique. Maria do Céu Fraga is assistant professor at the Universidade dos Açores, where she obtained her PhD in Portuguese literature with a dissertation entitled “The Major Genres in the Lyric Poetry of Camoens.” She is a member of the Centro Interuniversitário de Estudos Camonianos. Her research and publications are focused on sixteenth and seventeenth century Portuguese literature

Bioprofiles729 (with particular reference to Camões, Sá de Miranda, Gaspar Frutuoso, Father António Vieira, and bucolic literature, in general), In addition to several articles, her books include Camões: um bucolismo intranquilo (1989) and Os géneros maiores na poesia lírica de Camões (2003). Margit Frenk (Universidad Autónoma de México-El Colegio de México) is professor emeritus, folklorist, and translator. She is a member of the Mexican Academy and correspondant member of the Royal Spanish Academy and the British Academy, and holds an honorary doctorate from the Sorbonne. Founder and director of the journal Revista de Literaturas Populares, author of numerous publications, including the books Estudios sobre lírica antigua (1978), Las jarchas mozárabes y los comienzos de la lírica románica (1985), Fernán González de Eslava: Villancicos, romances, ensaladas y otras canciones devotas (1989), Symbolism in Old Spanish Folk Songs (1993), Entre la voz y el silencio (La lectura en tiempos de Cervantes) (1997, rpt. 2005), and Nuevo corpus de la antigua lírica popular hispánica: Siglos XV a XVII (2003). As a translator, she has translated into Spanish Stephen Gilman’s Cervantes and Avellaneda and Ernst Robert Curtius’s Europäische Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter. Joseba Gabilondo is associate professor at the Department of Romance and Classical Studies at Michigan State University. He has published several articles on Basque, Galician, and Spanish nationalisms, intellectual discourse, postnationalism, masculinity, queer theory, globalization, and Hollywood cinema. He has edited a special issue for the Arizona journal of Hispanic cultural studies entitled The Hispanic Atlantic (2001). He is the coeditor of Empire and terror: Nationalism/ postnationalism in the new millennium (Center for Basque Studies, 2004). He is also the author of an essay collection about contemporary Basque literature entitled Remnants of the nation: Prolegomena to a postnational history of Basque literature and a monograph on Basque novelist Ramon Saizarbitoria: New York – Martutene: On the utopia of Basque Postnationalism and the crisis of neoliberal globalization (or How will we desire now?). He is currently finishing two book manuscripts entitled Before Babel: A cultural history of Basque literatures and Atlantic Spain: Nationalism and the postcolonial ghost. He has also published two narrative books: From California with love (1992) and Vulgate of the apocalypse (2009) in Basque. María Ángeles Gallego is senior researcher and Director of the Institute of Languages and Cultures of the Mediterranean and the Near East of the CSIC. After receiving a PhD in Semitic philology at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid in 1996, she worked and taught at different academic institutions including Emory University (1997–99) and the University of Cambridge (2000–02). Her main field of research is the culture and history of the Jews of Islam and, more specifically, medieval Judeo-Arabic language and literature. Her publications include: El judeoárabe medieval. Edición, traducción y estudio lingüístico del Kitab al-taswi’a del gramático andalusí Yonah ibn Ganah (2006), “The calamities that followed the death of Joseph ibn Migash: Jewish views on the Almohad conquest” (2013). Dosinda García Alvite (PhD University of Michigan) is associate professor of Spanish at Denison University. Her research interests include cultural studies of contemporary Spain, with a special focus on Africa-Spain relations and transnational citizenship. Her publications analyze issues of national formation and exile in Equatorial Guinea, migrations between Latin America and Africa to Spain, contemporary Sephardic Jewish culture, and local, national and global Spanish identities.

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Euriell Gobbé-Mevellec teaches children’s literature at the Université de Toulouse – Jean Jaurès. She is a member of the research team LLA-Créatis and has written her PhD dissertation on the album illustré — both printed and digital — for children. Her most recent book is L’Album contemporain et le théâtre de l’image (Espagne, France) (2014). She has also coedited, with Monique Martinez Thomas, the ebook Dispositivo y artes: una nueva herramienta crítica para analizar las producciones contemporáneas (2015). Mariano Gómez-Aranda is a senior researcher at CSIC, Madrid. His research focuses on medieval Jewish exegesis, literatura, and science with particular attention to the connection between Jews and Arabs in the Iberian Peninsula. From 1998 he has supervised five research projects financed by the Spanish government. His publications include “The Jew as Scientist and Philosopher in Medieval Iberia” (2012), “The Connection Between Muslims and Jews in the Field of Science in the Middle Ages” (2010) and “Jacob’s Blessings in Medieval Jewish Exegesis” (2010). He has also published El comentario de Abraham ibn Ezra al libro de Job (2004) and Dos comentarios de Abraham ibn Ezra al libro de Ester (2007). Cristina Gómez Castro (University of León, Spain) is assistant professor of English. Her main research interests are the theory and methodology of translation, and more precisely, within the field of DTS, the study of the interaction between ideology and translation and the way (self) censorship and manipulation are present in the rewritings of texts. She wrote her dissertation on the topic of translation and censorship under Franco’s Spain and she has published on the topic in several journals and books. She has done several research stays, both pre-doctoral, in the Catholic University of Leuven (Belgium) and the University of Aston, Birmingham (UK), and post-doctoral, in the University of Lisbon (Portugal) , Sheffield Hallam University (UK), and University College London (UK). Fernando Gómez Redondo is professor of literary theory and comparative literature at Universidad de Alcalá. His most recent publications include Historia de la prosa medieval castellana (1997–2007, 4 vols.), Las ideas literarias (2011), a revised version Edad Media: Juglaría, Clerecía y Romancero (2012), and the edition of Repetición de amores (2014). He has been vice president of the AHLM and is the editor of Revista de poética medieval. Fernando González García is associate professor at the Department of Art History of the Universidad de Salamanca. His research interests focus on cinema studies. He has published on Pier Paolo Pasolini, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, Youssef Chahine, Mahamat-Saleh Haroun, Ingmar Bergman, Basilio Martín Patino, and Ermanno Olmi. His latest book is Los apuntes como forma poética (2015). Virginia Guarinos (PhD in philology and audiovisual communication) is associate professor at the Universidad de Sevilla. She is the director of the research group ADMIRA. She supervises the MA in Audiovisual Script. Germán Gullón has been professor of Spanish literature and literary theory at the University of Pennsylvania (1973–88), the University of California, Davis (1988–93), and at present he is emeritus professor at the University of Amsterdam. He regularly writes literary reviews for the magazine El cultural in the newspaper El mundo (2003–15), and he is a member of the jury of

Bioprofiles731 the Nadal Prize (2000–15). His most recent essays and studies are: Los mercaderes en el templo de la literatura (2004); Una Venus mutilada. La crítica literaria en la España actual (2008); El sexto sentido. La lectura en la era digital (2010); La novela de Galdós. El presente como materia literaria (2014). As a fiction writer he has published three novels, Querida hija (2000), La codicia de Guillermo de Orange (2013) and Moncloa (2014), as well as two short story collections, Adiós, Helena de Troya (1995) and Azulete (2000). Currently he is writing a biography of the Spanish novelist Benito Pérez Galdós. Thomas Harrington (Trinity College, Hartford) is associate professor of Hispanic studies. He teaches courses on twentieth- and twenty-first-century Spanish cultural history, literatura, and film. His areas of research expertise include modern Iberian nationalist movements, contemporary Catalonia, cultural theory, the epistemologies of Hispanic studies, and the history of migration between the so-called Peninsular periphery (Catalonia, Galicia, Portugal, and the Basque Country) and the societies of the Caribbean and the Southern Cone. In addition to his work in Hispanic studies, he is a frequent commentator on political and cultural affairs in the US and abroad. Heinz-Gerhard Haupt is professor emeritus of social history at the Universität Bielefeld and visiting professor at the European University Institute in Florence. He has published widely on nationalism, petite bourgeoisie in nineteenth century Europe, history of consumption, and history of violence in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Europe. He is interested in the new political history and comparative history. Dominic Keown specializes in contemporary Iberian culture. He has published widely on the ideological dimension of Catalan literature, Sobre la poesia catalana contemporània (1996), Polifonia de la subversió: la veu col.lectiva de Vicent Andrés Estellés (2000), A Companion to Catalan Culture (2011), and, in collaboration with the poet Tom Owen, After the Classics: the selected verse of Vicent Andrés Estellés (2013). He also writes on cinema from Spain with particular reference to Buñuel, Berlanga, Monleón, and Bigas Luna. His current interests extend to the interface between Catalan and Spanish creativity, transnational issues in the cultural production of Catalonia, and the metacritical divide between Hispanism and Iberian Studies. He is the editor of the Journal of Catalan Studies and the Anglo-Catalan Society’s Occasional Papers and the editor/ translator of Salvat-Papasseit (1982; 2005), Ausiàs March (3 vols: 1986; 1989; 1993), Valle-Inclán (1991) and Joan Fuster (1992; 2006). Stewart King (Monash University, Australia) is associate professor of Spanish and Catalan studies and coordinates the International Literatures program. He has published extensively on contemporary Spanish and Catalan fiction, focusing on questions of cultural and national identity. He is the author of Escribir la catalanidad. Lengua e identidades culturales en la narrativa contemporánea de Cataluña (2005). He has edited or coedited The space of culture: Critical readings in Hispanic studies (2004), La cultura catalana de expresión castellana (2005), Beyond the periphery: Narratives of identity in the Basque Country, Catalonia and Galicia (2007), and Global crime fiction, a special issue of the journal Clues: A journal of detection (2014). He is currently completing a book on cultural identity and crime fiction from Spain.

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Jon Kortazar is professor of Basque literature at the Euskal Herriko Unibertsitatea. He has supervised Historia de la literatura vasca contemporánea (8 vols., 2007–13). His Literatura vasca siglo XX has gone through six editions. He wrote Luma eta lurra / La pluma y la tierra, a history of Basque poetry. Montañas en la niebla. Poesía vasca de los años 90 completes his analysis of contemporary Basque poetry. His works have been translated into ten languages. Víctor de Lama de la Cruz is associate profesor at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. His most recent publications include Vivencias y pervivencias en la poesía de los cancioneros (siglos XV–XVII) (2007) and Relatos de viajes por Egipto en la época de los Reyes Católicos (2013). Jordi Larios is professor of Spanish at the University of St Andrews. He works in the field of twentieth-century Catalan literature and Spanish poetry. He is the author of a monograph on Llorenç Villalonga and has written on the poetry of Luis Cernuda and Pedro Salinas. He is also a poet and a translator. Isabelle Levy is assistant profesor of English and comparative literature at Columbia University and a visiting fellow at Fordham University’s Center for Medieval Studies. She received her PhD in comparative literature at Harvard University in 2014 with a dissertation entitled “The Poetics of Love in Prosimetra across the Medieval Mediterranean.” She studies the intersections between Romance and Semitic poetic traditions of the medieval Mediterranean and is particularly interested in court cultures and constructions of love across these varying literary landscapes. Graça Videira Lopes is professor at the Department of Portuguese Studies in FCSH/UNL (Universidade Nova de Lisboa). A member of the Institute of Medieval Studies, she has been working for several years in the area of medieval literature, more specifically on Galician-Portuguese troubadours. For the past four years, she was the chief researcher of “Littera’s Project,” a project funded by the Portuguese Agency for Science and Technology. Contemporary Portuguese literature and women’s studies are also among her interests. Elena Losada Soler (University of Barcelona) is associate professor of Portuguese literature. She received her doctorate in 1986 with a thesis on the reception of the work of Eça de Queirós in Spain. Her main research area is Portuguese literature in the nineteenth century, and she has published texts on Antero de Quental, Eça de Queirós, Camilo Castelo Branco, and Cesário Verde. As part of this project she has published a critical edition of the work A Ilustre Casa de Ramires and the volume Textos de Imprensa V. She also works and publishes extensively on other topics, such as translation studies and gender studies, and Lusophone women’s writing, specifically on the Brazilian author Clarice Lispector. Ángel López García (Universitat de València) is professor of linguistics. He is correspondiente of the Academia Norteamericana de la Lengua Española and member of the Academia aragonesa del català. His most recent publications include The neural basis of language (2007), La lengua común en la España plurilingüe (2009), Pluricentrismo, hibridación y porosidad en la lengua española (2010), Anglohispanos (2010), Los mecanismos neuronales del lenguaje (2014), and El español de Estados Unidos y el problema de la norma lingüística (2014). José-Carlos Mainer is retired professor of Spanish literature at the Universidad de Zaragoza. His books include La Edad de Plata (1902–1939) (1975), La filología en el purgatorio. Los estudios literarios en torno a 1950 (2003), and Tramas, libros, nombres: para entender la literatura española (2005). He is the general editor of the Historia de la literatura española (Crítica).

Bioprofiles733 Ángel Marcos de Dios (Universidad de Salamanca) is professor of Portuguese. He is correspondiente of the Academia Portuguesa da História, member of the Sociedade Brasileira de Língua e Literatura, and member the Centro de Investigação Joaquim Veríssimo Serrão. His most important publications are Epistolario portugués de Unamuno (1978), Escritos de Unamuno sobre Portugal (1985), Historia de la literatura portuguesa (1999), Os portugueses na Universidade de Salamanca desde a Restauração até às reformas iluministas do Marquês de Pombal (2001), and Portugueses na Universidade de Salamanca (1550–1580) (2009). Maria de Fátima Marinho is professor and vice president for cooperation and culture of the Universidade do Porto since June 2014. Her field of studies is Portuguese poetry and the historical novel of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Portugal. Her publications include: Herberto Helder, a Obra e o Homem (1982), O Surrealismo em Portugal (1987), A Poesia Portuguesa nos meados do Século XX – Rupturas e Continuidade (1989), O Romance Histórico em Portugal (1999), Um Poço sem Fundo – Novas Reflexões sobre Literatura e História (2005), O Sonho de Aljubarrota (2007), History and Myth – The Presence of National Myths in Portuguese Literature (2008), and A Lição de Blimunda – A propósito de Memorial do Convento (2009). Annabel Martín (Dartmouth College) is associate professor of Spanish, comparative literature, and women’s and gender studies, and the director of The Gender Research Institute at that institution. Working within the field of cultural studies and with a particular interest in nationalism, her research and publications pay special attention to the narratives of cultural and gender identity in contemporary Spanish culture. She is the author of the book, La gramática de la felicidad: Relecturas franquistas y posmodernas del melodrama (2005). Currently, she is studying the cultural context surrounding the end of ETA terrorism in Spain and the role the arts play in processes of reconciliation in her manuscript Rest in peace: The Basque political contours of the arts, a collaborative project with Basque artists Bernardo Atxaga, Julia Otxoa, Ricardo Ugarte, Luisa Etxenike, and Helena Taberna, among others. Inocência Mata is professor at the Universidade de Lisboa in the area of literature, arts, and culture (LAC), now acting as associate professor at the Universidade de Macau. She has published widely in the area of postcolonial studies and African studies (literature and culture). She is a founding member of UNEAS (National Union of Writers and Artists) of São Tomé e Príncipe, honorary partner of the Angolan Writers Association, and corresponding member of the Academy of Sciences. Paulo de Medeiros is Professor of Modern and Contemporary World Literatures, and teaches on the English and Comparative Literary Studies program at the University of Warwick. He was Associate Professor at Bryant College (USA) and Professor at Utrecht University (Netherlands) before moving to Warwick. In 2011–2012 he was Keeley Fellow at Wadham College, Oxford and in 2013 and 2014 President of the American Portuguese Studies Association. Current projects include a study on Postimperial Europe. Ana Merino (The University of Iowa) directs the MFA program in Spanish Creative Writing. She has published nine books of poems, a youth novel, and two plays. Merino has also written extensive criticism on comics and graphic novels. Merino has won the Diario de Avisos prize for her short articles on comics for the literary magazine Leer. Studies and has curated four comic book expositions.

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Iveta Nakládalová (Universitat Autónoma de Barcelona) is a postdoctoral research fellow. She has worked mainly on literary theory, comparative literatura, and cultural history in early modern Europe. Her research interests include theory and iconography of reading in Renaissance erudite culture, artes excerpendi, theoretical models of censorship, devotional literature, pre-modern forms of knowledge, and utopia. Her latest publication is La lectura docta en la Primera Edad Moderna (1450–1650) (2013). Dorothy Odartey-Wellington (University of Guelph, Canada) is associate professor of Hispanic studies. Her current research explores cross-cultural dialogue and transnational identities, within the context of colonization and migration, in African literatures written in Spanish. She is particularly interested in creative expression by writers from Equatorial Guinea and the Western Sahara. She is the author of Contemporary Spanish fiction: Generation X (2008) and “‘Equatorial Guinea is Different’: Literatura Colonial de Guinea Española en África Occidental” (2014). She is currently working on the translation into English of Saharawi writer Bahia Mahmud Awah’s memoire La maestra que me enseñó en una tabla de madera (The woman who taught me on a wooden slate). Ángel Otero-Blanco (University of Richmond, Virginia) is associate professor of Spanish. His main research area is the literature of modern and contemporary Spain. His scholarship is primarily concerned with the literary relations between present-day Iberian authors and the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century cultural canon. His research interests include comparative literature (Spain-United States), the poetry of Spain during the democratic transition, and film adaptation. He has published on Arturo Pérez-Reverte, Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, Suso de Toro, Edith Wharton, Paul Auster, and Toni Morrison. José Manuel Pedrosa (Universidad de Alcalá) is professor of literary theory. As philologist and folklorist, he has published two hundred scientific articles and more than twenty books, among them Las dos sirenas y otros ensayos de literatura tradicional (1995), Tradición oral y escrituras poéticas en los Siglos de Oro (1999), Entre la magia y la religión: oraciones, conjuros, ensalmos (2000), Mitos y cuentos del exilio de Ruanda (2001, in collaboration with Luis Estepa), La ciudad oral. Literatura tradicional urbana del sur de Madrid. Teoría, método, textos (2002, in collaboration with Sebastián Moratalla), Las voces sin fronteras: didáctica de la literatura oral y la literatura comparada (2003, in collaboration with Nieves Gómez López), El cuento tradicional en los siglos de Oro (2004), La autoestopista fantasma y otras leyendas urbanas españolas (2004), La historia secreta del Ratón Pérez (2005), and Cuentos y leyendas inmigrantes (2008). José Antonio Pérez Bowie is professor in literary theory and comparative literature at the Universidad de Salamanca. His current interests focus on the relationships between literature and audiovisual media. He is the author of Cine, literatura y poder. La adaptación cinematográfica durante el primer franquismo (2004), Leer el cine. La teoría literaria en la teoría cinematográfica (2008), and El mercado vigilado. La adaptación en el cine español de los cincuenta (2010, in collaboration with Fernando González). He is also editor of collective volumes such as La adaptación cinematográfica de textos literarios. Teoría y práctica (2003), Reescrituras de la imagen. Nuevos territorios de la adaptación (2010), La noche se mueve. La adaptación en el cine del tardofranquismo (2013), and Transescrituras audiovisuales (2015).

Bioprofiles735 Santiago Pérez Isasi is currently associate researcher at the Center for Comparative Studies in the Universidade de Lisboa, where he works on the project “Nationalism and Literary Regenerations in the Iberian Peninsula (1868–1936).” His areas of interest include Iberian literary and cultural relations, nineteenth- and twentieth-century literary history in relation with national identity and the formation of the literary canon, Spanish narrative from the Golden Age to present times, and digital humanities, with special attention to digital scholarly editions and to cartographic representation of data. In 2013 he coedited with Ângela Fernandes the volume Looking at Iberia. A comparative European perspective. He has published several articles in peer-reviewed journals, such as Bulletin for Hispanic studies, Revista de Filología Románica, 1616 – Anuario de la Sociedad de Literatura General y Comparada, Oihenart, and Cuadernos de Ilustración y Romanticismo. F. Jorge Pérez y Durà (Universitat de València) is full professor of Latin. He has edited and translated several Latin writers. Randolph D. Pope (University of Virginia) is the Commonwealth Professor of Spanish and Comparative Literature and director of graduate studies in Spanish. His field of specialization is the Peninsular novel and autobiography, but he has also written extensively on other topics, such as Latin American literature, cultural studies, literature and architecture, literature and the arts, and literature and philosophy. His most recent publication is ¿Por qué España? Memoria personal del hispanismo estadounidense, coedited with Anna Caballé. Josep Pujol (Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona) is professor of medieval Catalan literature. He is co-director of the project Translat (Translations into Catalan up to 1500 ). He has published on medieval Catalan poetry (especially Ausiàs March) and novels (Tirant lo Blanc), literary theory, and translations of classical and medieval Latin works. His publications include La memòria literària de Joanot Martorell. Models i escriptura en el Tirant lo Blanc (2002), and the critical editions of the medieval Catalan translations of William of Conches’s Dragmaticon Philosophiae (with Lola Badia, 1997), and of Ovid’s Heroides (forthcoming). María do Cebreiro Rábade Villar is assistant professor at the Universidade de Santiago de Compostela. Her research interests are in the areas of comparative literature, poetry, nineteenth century novel, and the analysis of literary anthologies as constructive mechanisms of national identity. Her publications include As antoloxías de poesía en Galicia e Cataluña (2004), As terceiras mulleres (2005), and Fogar impronunciable. Poesía e pantasma (2011). She is also the author, with Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza, of Manual de Teoría de la literatura (2006) and coeditor, with Helena González Fernández, of the collective work Canon y subversión. La obra narrativa de Rosalía de Castro (2012). Gabriel Rei-Doval is associate professor of Spanish at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, where he teaches Hispanic and Lusophone linguistics. He was formerly a researcher in the Seminar of Sociolinguistics of the Galician Academy of Language, in the team that undertook the monumental Sociolinguistic Map of Galicia: Estudio sociolingüístico da comarca ferrolá (1993), Lingua inicial e competencia lingüística en Galicia (1994), Usos lingüísticos en Galicia (1995), and Actitudes lingüísticas en Galicia (1996). He is also the author of Publicidade e lingua galega (1995) and Vender en galego (1996), and co-editor of Manual de Ciencias da Linguaxe (2000). His more

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recent books include A lingua galega na cidade no século XX: unha aproximación sociolingüística (2007), A lingüística galega desde alén mar (2009), Contacto de linguas, hibrididade, cambio: contextos, procesos e consecuencias (2013), and Responses to language endangerment: New directions in language documentation and language revitalization (2013). He has just published En memoria de tanto miragre: Estudos en homenaxe ao profesor David Mackenzie (2015). Professor Rei-Doval facilitated the 2013 MLA petition for a Galician Studies Forum, endorsed by over 300 scholars worldwide and approved by MLA in november 2014. Joan Ramon Resina is Professor of Iberian and Latin American Cultures and Comparative Literature at Stanford University. He specializes in modern European literatures and cultures with an emphasis on the Spanish and Catalan traditions. He is Director of the Iberian Studies Program, housed in the Freeman Spogli Institute. He is most recently the author of Del Hispanismo a los Estudios Ibéricos. Una propuesta federativa para el ámbito cultural. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 2009. He has also published extensively in specialized journals, such as PMLA, MLN, New Literary History, and Modern Language Quarterly, and has contributed to a large number critical volumes. Ana Salgueiro Rodrigues is a PhD student in culture studies at the Universidade Católica Portuguesa. Her research areas include insular studies (cultural and literary aproaches, mainly related to Lusophone islands), memory studies, disaster studies (cultural issues), exile, and human and cultural transit and translation. She is co-author of Vozes de Cabo Verde e Angola: Quatro Percursos Literários (2010) and coeditor of (Dis)Memory of Disasters: a Multidisciplinary Approach/(Des)Memória de Desastre: uma Abordagem Multidisciplinar (2015). Leonardo Romero Tobar is professor emeritus of Spanish literature at the Universidad de Zaragoza. His most recent publications include La Literatura en su Historia (2006), Dos liberales o lo que es entenderse (2007), Maestros amigos (2013), and Goya en la literatura (forthcoming). Fernando Romo Feito (Universidade de Vigo) was professor of literary theory. His latest publications include Hermenéutica, interpretación, literatura (2007), “Escucho con mis ojos a los muertos.” La odisea de la interpretación literaria (2008), La hermenéutica. La aventura del comprender (2010), El Ciceroniano. Edición de Fernando Romo Feito (2011), “De interpretatione recta” de Leonardo Bruni: un episodio en la historia de la traducción y la hermenéutica (2012), and A hombros de gigantes. Estudios de teoría e historia literarias (2014). Karmele Rotaetxe (1932–2013) was professor emerita of Basque at the Euskal Herriko Unibertsitatea, academician of honor of the Euskaltzaindia, and a member of the New York Academy of Sciences (Linguistics). Her books include Soziolinguistika: hizkuntza eta gizartea Euskadin (1986), Sociolingüística (1988), and Tipología lingüística: dativo y datividad (1999). Serge Salaün is professor at the Université Sorbonne Nouvelle-París 3. His research interests include nineteenth- and twentieth-century Spanish literature, especially drama. He is the founding director of the Centre de Recherche sur l’Espagne Contemporaine. His latest publications include Le tragique espagnol dans les années 20 et 30 (2007) and La réception des cultures de masse et des cultures populaires en Espagne (XVIIIe–XXe siècles) (2009, with Françoise Étienvre).

Bioprofiles737 Vicent Salvador Liern (Universitat Jaume I) is professor of Catalan. He is a member of the board of the Biblioteca Nacional de España (2005–08), deputy director of the Institut Interuniversitari de Filologia Valenciana (2003–07), and vice president of the Catalan PEN Club (2007–15). His most recent publications include L’ensenyament del discurs escrit, 2008 (coauthored with I. Ríos), Opera estellesiana. Per a una edició crítica de Vicent Andrés Estellés (2010), L’ull despert. Anàlisi crítica dels discursos d’avui (2012), L’obra literària de Vicent Andrés Estellés. Gèneres, tradicions poètiques i estil (2013), and Figures i esbossos. Estudis sobre literatura valenciana contemporània (2013). Zulmira Santos (Universidade do Porto) is associate professor of Portuguese literature. Her research interests and publications include early modern fiction and poetry, Portuguese literature and culture (sixteenth- to eighteenth-century), Spanish literature and culture (sixteenth- to eighteenth-century), book history (sixteenth century), and religious literature (sixteenth- and seventeenth-century). Ellen W. Sapega (University of Wisconsin-Madison) is professor of Portuguese literature. Her publications include books, articles, and book chapters on Portuguese modernism, memory, visual culture, and commemoration since the late nineteenth century; the contemporary Portuguese novel; and Cape Verdean literature and culture. She is the author of Ficções Modernistas: Um Estudo da Obra em Prosa de José de Almada Negreiros and Consensus and debate in Salazar’s Portugal: Visual and literary negotiations of the national text. Maria Alzira Seixo is professor at the Universidade de Lisboa. She has been visiting professor at the University of Chicago, The Johns Hopkins University, the University of California at Santa Barbara, and the Universidade de Macau, among others. She was a member of the ICLA Executive Council between 1985 and 1991, and ICLA president from 1991 to 1994. She has published around twenty books. Germán Sierra is associate professor of biochemistry and neurosciences at the Universidade de Santiago de Compostela, Spain. He is also the author of five novels, one collection of short stories, and many articles about the intersection between literature, philosophy, technology, and the sciences. He is currently a member of the “Narrativas cruzadas. Hibridación, transmedialidad y performatividad en la era digital.” Beatriz Suárez Briones is professor of literary theory at the Universidade de Vigo. Her research focuses on feminist and lesbian theory at its intersections with the theory of sexuality, psychoanalysis, and writing. Her latest publications are Las lesbianas (no) somos mujeres. En torno a Monique Wittig (2013) and Feminismos lesbianos y queer. Representación, visibilidad y políticas (2014). Anxo Tarrío Varela is professor of Galician at the Universidade de Santiago de Compostela. His most important publications, besides the articles in specialized magazines and editions of Galician writers, are Lectura semiológica de “Fortunata y Jacinta,” De letras e de signos (ensaios de semiótica e crítica literaria) (1987), Álvaro Cunqueiro ou os disfraces da melancholia (1989), As primeiras experiencias narrativas de Eduardo Blanco Amor (1993), and Literatura galega. Aportacións a unha Historia crítica (1994).

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Bioprofiles

Elias J. Torres Feijó is associate professor at the Universidade de Santiago de Compostela. He is the leader of the research group GALABRA. His research interests and professional activities include cultural planning, cultural consulting, spin-off development, literary and culture studies, and literatures and cultures in Portuguese. Michael Ugarte (University of Missouri-Columbia) is professor of Spanish literature and culture in the Department of Romance Languages and the Afro-Romance Institute. He is the author of several books including Africans in Europe: The culture of exile and emigration from Equatorial Guinea to Spain (2010), Madrid 1900 (2007), Shifting ground: Spanish Civil war exile literature (1989), and Trilogy of treason: An intertextual study of Juan Goytisolo (1982). He has also translated works of African authors who write in Spanish: Donato Ndongo, Shadows of your black memory (2007), and Justo Bolekia’s poetry collection Löbëla (2015). María José Vega (Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona) is professor of literary theory and comparative literature. She has worked mainly on literary theory and comparative literature in early modern Europe (sixteenth and seventeenth centuries). Her last publications include El secreto artificio: qualitas sonorum y tradición pontaniana en la poética del Renacimiento (1992), La teoría de la novella en el siglo XVI. La poética neoaristotélica ante el Decamerón (1994), La formación de la teoría de la comedia (1997); Los libros de prodigios en el Renacimiento (2002), Mostri e prodigi all’età della Riforma (2008), and Disenso y censura en el siglo XVI (2012). Frederik Verbeke is postdoctoral research fellow at the Euskal Herriko Unibertsitatea, granted by the Basque Government, doing a two-year research stay (2015–2016) at IKER–UMR 5478, a Bayonne-based joint research unit of the Université de Pau et des Pays de l’Adour, the Université Bordeaux Montaigne and the Centre national de la recherche scientifique. His current research interests concern translation studies, self-translation and imagology. He is studying the relationships between the Basque Country and contemporary French literature. Interested by interactions and networks between so-called “peripheral” or “small” cultures, he focused his PhD research on the intercultural relationships between the Basque Country and Belgium. Lara Vilà (Universitat de Girona) is assistant professor of literature. She has devoted her research to sixteenth-century literature and, mainly, to Spanish epics of the Golden Age. She has published articles, essays, and dictionary entries on these topics. More recently, she has also studied and published on sixteenth-century chronicles and descriptions of the Eastern colonies (mainly China and Japan), and she is now working on a catalog and description of Sebastian Brant’s engravings to the Vergilian Opera omnia prepared by Printer Johan Grüninger in 1502. David Viñas Piquer is professor of literary theory and comparative literature at the Universitat de Barcelona. He has published many articles on various topics related to literary studies, as well as the following books: Historia de la crítica literaria (2002), Hermenéutica de la novela en la teoría literaria de Francisco Ayala (2003), El enigma best-seller (2009), Erótica de la autoayuda (2012), Josep Pla i l’invent “Costa Brava” (2013), and Sin miedo a Borges (2015). David Wacks is associate professor of Spanish in the Department of Romance Languages at the University of Oregon. His research interests include medieval Iberian literature and Sephardic Jewish culture. His most recent publications include Framing Iberia: Frametales and Maqamat

Bioprofiles739 in medieval Spain (2007) and Double diaspora in Sephardic literature: Jewish cultural production before and after 1492 (2015). He is also coeditor of Wine, women and song: Hebrew and Arabic literature in medieval Iberia (2004). Bernard Westphal is professor of general and comparative literature at the Université de Limoges, where he directs the “Espaces Humains et Interactions Culturelles” research team. He is the author of Geocriticism: Real and Fictional Spaces, as well as numerous works on geocriticism, Austrian literature, the Mediterranean, and the theory of the novel.  Roger Wright is professor emeritus at the University of Liverpool[mostrar notas y marcas de edición]. From 1972 until his retirement in 2008, he worked in the Hispanic studies department of that university, becoming professor with a personal chair in 1996, lecturing on Spanish linguistics and the languages, history, and oral literature of Spain before 1492, as well as teaching Spanish language at many levels. His research work includes studies on the Spanish Romancero (ballads) and Unamuno, but has concentrated mainly on the historical and linguistic relations between the Romance languages and Latin. He has written some one hundred articles and two hundred reviews, and his best known books are Late Latin and early Romance (in Spain and Carolingian France) (1982), Spanish ballads with English translations (1987), Early Ibero-Romance (1995), El Tratado de Cabreros; estudio sociofilológico de una reforma ortográfica (2000), and A sociophilological study of late Latin (2003). 

Index

A Abati, Joaquín  474, 476–477 Abdias 75 Abellán, Manuel Luis  430, 432, 434 Abrams, Meyer H.  640 Abranches, Filipe  574 Abravanel, Isaac  356, 360 Abreu, Maria Fernanda de  2 Abuín González, Anxo  1, 3–4, 126, 449, 609, 632, 634, 639, 650, 654, 656–657, 659–660 Abyssinia 52 Acosta de Hess, Josefina  247 Actium  307–308, 312–314, 316–317 Acuña, Hernando de  180 Adell, Joan-Elies  450, 507, 608, 661 Adorno, Theodor W.  452, 511 Aesop 343 Afonso I of Portugal [Afonso Henriques] 87 Afonso V of Portugal  158 Africa  37, 45, 52–53, 87, 95, 97–98, 102, 113, 115, 119, 123, 283, 285, 351, 426, 523, 559, 633 Agapetus 343 Agostinho de Cruz [Fr.] [Agostinho Pimenta] 202 Agra, María Xosé  591 Aguado, Txetxu  66–67 Agualusa, José Eduardo  98, 637 Aguerre Azpilicueta, Pedro [Axular] 410 Aguiar, Fernando  503 Aguilar Ródenas, Consol  582 Ainaud, Jordi  324 Airas, Xohán  285 Aitzol [see Ariztimuño, José] Ajami, Fouad  76 Al-Andalus  131–132, 351 Alarcón, Pedro Antonio de  245–246, 249, 538 Alario, Carmen  592 Alba Cecilia, Amparo  137 Albarracín Soto, Matilde  601 Alborg, Juan Luis  227 Albornoz, Raquel  433, 435 Alçada, Isabel  89, 91–94, 96–97, 99

Alcalá de Henares  26, 148, 197, 259, 584, 592 Alcalá, Jerónimo de  34 Alcalá, Paloma  579 Alcântara, Pedro de  201 Alcibiades 215 Alcina Rovira, Juan  342 Alcoriza, Luis  541 Aldana, Francisco de  173 Aldecoa, Ignacio  34 Aldekoa, Iñaki  483–484 Alegre, Francesc  326 Alemán, Mateo  34, 56, 78, 83 Alexandre, Manuel  558 Alfeo, Juan Carlos  601 Alfonso V of Aragon  321–322, 324, 332 Alfonso VI of Leon and Castile  15 Alfonso VIII of Castile  79–80, 132 Alfonso X of Castile  76, 83, 323, 351, 454 Alfonso, Pedro [Mosé Sephard]  78 Algaba, Jacob  355–356, 358–359, 361–362 Algarve 238 Algeria 21 Algiers 313 Al-Ḥ arīrī, Abū Muḥammad alQāsim ibn ʿAlī 351 Ali Pasha, Sufi  313 Aliaga, Juan Vicente  597 Alicante  84, 466, 584–585, 590 Al-Jāḥiẓ, Abū ʿUthmān ʿAmr ibn Baḥr 132 Aljubarrota  209, 215 Alkalay-Gut, Karen  354 Allen, Woody  533 Allessandrini, Goffredo  539 Al-Marzūqī, Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad 132 Almeida, Isabel  128, 158, 161, 163, 168 Almeida, José Valentim Fialho de 240 Almeida, Manuel António de  190–191 Almeida, Manuel Pires de  163

Almería  113, 584 Almirall, Valentí  25, 287, 289 Al-Mubarrad [Abū Al-ʿabbās Muḥammad Ibn Yazīd]  132 Alonso González, Francisco Bernardo 601 Alonso, Francisco  474–475 Al-Ṣābī, Abū’l-Ḥ usayn Hilāl b. Muḥassin b. Ibrahīm  132 Altadill, Antonio  454, 458 Altamira, Rafael  240, 292 Altarriba, Antonio  570 Althusser, Louis  389 Altman, Rick  534–536 Altuna, Manuel Ignacio  373 Altzibar, Xavier  287 Álvarez Blázquez, Xosé María  392–393 Álvarez Enparantza, José Luis [Txillardegi]  411, 414, 418 Álvarez Junco, José  400–401 Álvarez López, Esther  588 Álvarez Méndez, Natalia  447 Álvarez Palacios, Francisco  426 Álvarez Quintero, Joaquín  237, 472 Álvarez Quintero, Serafín  237, 472 Al-Washsha [, Abu ’l-Ṭayyib Muḥammad b. Aḥmad b. Isḥāḳ al-Aʿrābī] 132 Alzaga, Toribio de  230 Amado, Teresa  158 Amador de los Ríos, José  78, 82, 653 Amaral, Ana Luísa  592, 594–595, 633, 638 Amat i de Cortada, Rafael de [Baron of Maldà]  259, 263 Amate, Kim  268 America  2, 18, 126, 186, 193, 199, 283, 285, 292, 364, 373, 378, 574, 611 Amezaga Aresti, Vicente de  373 Amiel, Henry  258, 262, 266 Amo, Antonio del  539 Amores, Montserrat  455 Amorós, Carles  335 Amorós, Celia  591

Index

742 Amsterdam 355 Anabitarte, Héctor  595 Anacleto, Marta  153 Andalusia  94, 100, 105, 114, 367, 369–371, 509, 525, 556, 587, 597, 601 Andeiro, João Fernandes [Count] 16 Anderson, Benedict  401, 610 Anderson, Danny J.  443 Andrada, Alfonso de  204 Andrada, Francisco de  158 Andrade, João Pedro de  238 Andrade, Mário de  191 Andreïev, Leonid  476 Andrés Labrador, Trinidad  268 Andrés-Suárez, Irene  114 Andreu Mediero, Silvia  586 Angola  284, 637 Angouleme 571 Antic Roca, Francesc  330 António, Lauro  548 Antunes, António Lobo  98, 215, 282, 489, 637 Antwerp  50, 383 Anzieu, Didier  276 Apalategui, Ur  304, 409, 607, 609, 658 Apollinaire, Guillaume [Guillelmus Apollinaris de Kostrowitzki]  171 Arabia  52, 67 Aracil, Lluís  282 Aradra Sánchez, Rosa  532 Aragon  28, 100, 321–322, 324, 373, 454 Araguas, Vicente  508 Arana, Sabino  285, 287, 414 Aranda, Vicente  541–542 Araquistáin, Luis  466 Araújo, Helena Costa  595 Araújo, Jorge  98 Arbach, Marla  4 Arbelbide, Nora  420 Arbiol, Antonio  203 Archer, Robert  179, 327, 357 Arderius, Francisco  473 Arellano Ignacio  62 Arenal, Concepción  285, 585 Arenas Cruz, María Elena  283 Arenas, Fernando  444 Aresti, Gabriel  414, 418 Argentina  81, 84, 429–430, 435, 566, 626

Argentina, La [Antonia Mercé] 479 Arias Navarro, Carlos  555 Aribau, Bonaventura Carles  21–25, 27 Ariosto, Ludovico  163, 166, 168– 169, 314, 316 Aristotle  52, 125, 162–163, 299, 329, 331, 391 Ariztimuño, José [Aitzol]  418 Arkotxa, Aurelia  305, 418–421, 607 Arles 316 Armas, Augusto de  385 Armendáriz, Montxo  113 Armiñán, Jaime de  553, 560 Armistead, Samuel  358 Arndt, Ernst Moritz  618 Arniches, Carlos  466, 471, 480–481 Arráiz Lucca, Rafael  376 Arredondo, María Soledad  153–154 Arretxe, Jon  487, 608 Arriaga Flórez, Mercedes  588 Arrieta, Emilio  474 Arroyo 41 Arteaga, Almudena de  213 Artze, José Antonio  509 Asenjo Barbieri, Francisco  474–476, 479–481 Asensi, Matilde  489 Asensio, Eugenio  342 Ashtor, Eliyahu  76 Asia  16, 87, 95, 283, 285, 351 Asia Minor  79 Asimov, Isaac  429 Assarino, Lucas  220 Astete, Gaspar de  346 Astigarraga, Jesús  373 Asturias 100 Atxaga, Bernardo [Joseba Irazu Garmendia]  7–8, 64–69, 416, 418, 488, 606, 610 Aub, Max  234, 542 Auber, Daniel-François  476 Aubertin, John James  177 Auerbach, Erich  614, 617–618 Augier, Émile  477 Augustine of Hippo [St.]  299, 321, 324–325 Augusto, Sara  152 Augustus Caesar [Gaius Octavius] 307–312, 314, 316–317 Aullón de Haro, Pedro  283 Aulus Gellius  298, 617

Auschwitz 620 Austen, Jane  428 Austin  621, 625 Avalle-Arce, Juan Bautista  138–139, 154 Avanessian, Armen  499 Aveiro 444 Avelar, Idelber  441 Avenoza, Gemma  321, 323, 325 Ávila 106 Ávila, Francisco de  204 Avilés, Gaspar de  204 Avilés, Javier  500, 506 Axe, John  84 Axular [see Aguerre Azpilicueta, Pedro] Ayache, Elie  505 Ayala, Francisco  190 Ayguals de Izco, Wenceslao  453, 456 Aza, Vital  476 Azancot, Leopoldo  8, 76, 85–86 Azancot, Nuria  500 Azevedo, Cândido de  425, 430–432 Aznar, José María  282 Azores Islands  100, 577 Azorín [see Martínez Ruiz, José] B Badajoz 290 Badia, Lola  320–321, 324, 327 Baer, William  181 Baer, Yitzhak  75, 83 Bagby, Albert I.  76 Bahamonde Magro, Ángel  455 Baidez Aparicio, Nathan  601 Baker Brown, Isaac  244 Bakhtin, Mikhail  130 Bal, Mieke  449 Balaguer, Víctor  24–26, 28, 458 Balakian, Anna  650 Balbuena, Bernardo de  148 Balcells, Albert  29 Balearic Islands  100, 332, 584, 590 Balkans 84 Ballard, George  385 Ballarín Domingo, Pilar  581, 583, 586–587 Balló, Jordi  533, 535 Balsebre, Armand  563 Balza, Isabel  601 Balzac, Honoré de  428, 460–461, 614

Index743 Bangladesh 528 Baptista, Jacinto  286 Baptista, Maria Manuel  444 Barbeito, José Manuel  6 Barbosa, Pedro  449 Barcelona  584, 27–30, 84, 102, 108–109, 158, 188, 193–197, 229, 235–236, 261, 263–266, 288, 290, 328–330, 335–337, 440, 454–455, 457–458, 467–468, 470, 496, 508, 518–519, 524–525, 530, 550–552, 571–572, 579, 585, 587, 589, 596– 598, 635, 660 Bardem, Juan Antonio  556 Bargueiras, Carlos  600 Baring, Maurice  428 Barnatán, Marcos  85–86 Baroja, Pío  9, 78, 101, 104, 107–108, 110, 207, 211, 405, 607 Barón, Rafael  566 Barral, Carlos  261 Barreira, Domingo  538 Barreno, Maria Isabel  592 Barrento, João  633 Barreto, Danny  623 Barriga, Cecilia  599 Barrio Alonso, Ángeles  455 Barros, Carlos  14 Barros, João de  167–168, 203 Barros, José Leitão de  538, 544–545 Barros, Nelson de  566 Barroso, Cristina  547 Barthes, Roland  258, 642 Basil the Great [St.]  343 Basque Autonomous Community  409, 412, 418 Basque Country  2, 64–66, 68, 72, 123, 129, 218, 257, 285, 287, 289, 291, 302, 304–305, 373–374, 379, 409–412, 415, 420, 427, 509, 524, 556, 567, 584, 592, 597, 605–610, 640, 658 Basterra, Ramón de  374–376 Bastons i Vivanco, Carles  25, 31 Bastos, António de Sousa  237 Bastos, Francisco José Teixeira  240 Bastos, Glória  90 Bataillon, Marcel  83, 161 Baty, Gaston  540 Baulo, Sylvie  453, 455 Baum, Vicky  428 Bauman, Zygmunt  640 Bavaria 76

Bayard, Pierre  506 Bayés, Fernando  474 Bayley, Chris  647 Bayonne  411, 417, 421, 423 Bayton, Mavis  525 Beatrice of Portugal  209 Becerra, Carmen  447 Beck, Ulrich  646 Beckett, Samuel  237, 619 Beckwith, Stacy N.  79, 85 Bécquer, Gustavo Adolfo  539 Bedolla, Víctor Manuel  601 Belbel, María José  599 Belchior, Maria de Lourdes  140, 202 Belgium  260, 476 Bellay, Joachim du  409 Beller, Manfred  20, 59, 89, 91, 96, 112 Bello, Andrés  375 Bello, Maria do Rosário Leitão Lupi 444 Bellver, Sergi  501 Beltrán, Luis  446 Bembo, Pietro  142, 177 Ben Elʿazar, Jacob  131–133, 135–137 Ben Israel, Menasseh [Manoel Dias Soeiro] 355 Ben Ytzchak, Meir  76 Benavente, Jacinto  235, 472 Benbassa, Esther  75 Benedict, Barbara  388 Benedicto [García Villar]  508 Benet, Juan  541 Beneyto Pérez, Juan  426 Beneyto, Antonio  426, 437 Bengoechea, Mercedes  592, 597 Benidorm 84 Benítez, Rubén  453, 456 Benjamin, Walter  386 Benoît de Saint-Maure  156 Benoit, Pierre  428 Benzoni, Girolamo  362 Beramendi, Justo  12 Bergara 379 Berger, John  66 Berger, Philippe  159 Bergman, Ingmar  533 Bergmann, Emilie L.  441–442 Berlin 640 Berlusconi, Silvio  558 Bermúdez, Jerónimo  220 Bernard, Tristan  477

Bernardes, Diogo  147, 173 Bernardes, Manuel  203 Bernardino, Teresa  215 Bernardo, Nuno  562 Bernstein, Henri  237 Bersuire, Pierre  324 Bertriu, Francesc  541 Bertuzzi, Irene  7 Bessa-Luís, Agustina  212, 215 Betancor, Antonio  541 Bethlehem 153 Beusterien, Jonathan  77 Beuter, Pere Antoni  332 Biarritz 410 Bibang, Afrika  524 Bidegain, Eneko  420–421 Bienkowska, Danuta  397 Bigas Luna, Josep Joan  442 Bilal, Enki  572 Bilbo [or Bilbao]  68, 304, 373, 411–412, 416, 455, 488, 635, 641, 655 Binche 158 Bioy Casares, Adolfo  576 Birulés, Fina  589 Biscay  59, 288, 375, 417 Bizet, Georges  35 Bjornson, Richard  186 Bjørnsson, Bjørnstjerne  476 Blackmore, Josiah  442 Blanchot, Maurice  258, 262, 446 Blanco Villarreal, Vicente  85 Blanco, Ana Isabel  588 Blanquat, Josette  464 Blas Guerrero, Andrés de  286, 426 Blasco Ibáñez, Vicente  78–79, 81–82, 240, 246, 249, 489 Blasco y Soler, Eusebio  459, 465, 473, 477 Blasco, Javier  161, 404–405, 407 Blasseti, Alessandro  539 Blatty, William Peter  306, 433, 435 Blockeel, Francesca  9, 89, 91, 97, 632–633 Bloom, Harold  493, 532 Bloy, Léon  262, 385 Blyton, Enid  89, 91, 632 Boabdil [see Muḥammad XII of Granada] Boase, Roger  132 Bobillo, Francisco  291 Boccaccio, Giovanni  160, 320, 325 Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus  320–322, 325, 346

Index

744 Bofarull, Antoni de  24, 28, 454 Bofarull, Pròsper de  24, 27 Bohemia 35 Bohigas, Pere  332–333 Boileau, Nicolas  222, 481 Bolívar, Simón  374–375 Bonaparte, Joseph [King of Spain and Naples]  210 Bonaut, Joseba  561 Bonaval, Bernardo de  285 Bonet, Antonio  447 Bonet, Honoré  324 Bonet, Laureano  460 Bonet, Magda  509 Bonfil, Robert  356, 360 Bonilla, Juan  114 Bonn 102 Booth, Wayne C.  644 Borbón, Carlos María Isidro [Count of Molina]  211 Borda, Itxaro  305, 412, 414–422, 607 Bordeaux  409, 422, 446 Borges, Jorge Luis  79, 390, 497, 505, 572, 575–576 Borja y de Carroz de Vilaragut, Angela 328 Bornat, Claudi  330–331, 335 Borràs, Laura  448 Borrazás, Xurxo  500 Borrego, Juan José  567 Boscán, Juan [or Joan Boscà]  141, 172–173, 179, 326, 334–335 Bosch de la Trinxeria, Carles  24, 26–27 Bosch, Alfred  29–31 Bosch, Esperanza  586, 590 Bosque, Ignacio  404, 406–407 Bossi, Alfredo  190 Botelho, Abel  240, 250, 254–255 Botelho, João  543 Botrel, Jean-François  446, 453, 455–458, 464 Bou, Enric  128–129, 256, 446, 449, 608 Bou, Teresa  333–334 Bougnoux, Daniel  275–276, 278 Bourdieu, Pierre  393, 420, 443, 461, 493, 508, 609 Bourg, Jean  62 Boyarin, Daniel  351 Boyarin, Jonathan  351 Bracco, Roberto  476

Bradbury, Ray  429 Braga 14–15 Braga, Teófilo  226, 240 Bragança, Nuno  546 Branco, Camilo Castelo  191–193, 198, 210–211, 240, 243, 245, 544, 554, 557, 565, 650 Branco, Paulo  549 Brandão, Raul  234 Brandenberger, Tobias  170 Brann, Ross  84, 131 Brant, Sebastian  310 Brañas, Alfredo  13 Brasilia 102 Braudel, Fernand  126 Brazil  60, 87, 91, 97, 190, 266, 285, 557, 559, 562 Brecht, Bertolt [Eugen Berthold Friedrich Brecht]  236 Brennan, Timothy  403 Bretón de los Herreros, Manuel 476 Bretón, Tomás  474 Breyner, Nicolau  557 Breyner, Sophia de Mello  266 Briesemeister, Dietrich  321, 616 Brieux, Eugène  477 Brilhante, Maria João  128, 608 Bringas López, Ana  590 Briones, Gabriel  474 Brittany 292 Briz, Francesc Pelai  29 Brocense, El [see Sánchez de las Brozas, Francisco] Broch, Àlex  29 Brontë, Anne  242 Brontë, Emily  428 Brook, Peter  522 Brown, Dan  447, 489, 495 Brown, Gary J.  174 Brueghel, Peter  260 Brull, Apolinar  471 Bruni, Leonardo  320, 326 Bruno, Pep  274 Brussels 97 Buck, Pearl S.  428 Bueno, Rai  274 Buenos Aires  85, 229, 290 Buero Vallejo, Antonio  234, 237, 541 Buescu, Helena  656, 660 Buika, Concha  520–522 Burgos 107

Burgos, Carmen de  462 Burgos, Cristóvão de  157 Burgos, Elvira  599, 601 Burke, Peter  294–295 Burnett, Charles  351 Burton, Tim  275, 280 Bush, Christopher  654 Busquets i Grabulosa, Lluís  25 Butler, Blake  505 Butler, Christopher  641 Butler, Judith  70, 417, 598–599 Buxán, Xosé Manuel  595–597 Byrnes, Heidi  439 C Caballé, Anna  256 Cabanillas, Ramón  14–15, 229, 287 Cabassa, Mariona  274 Cabello, Helena  599 Cabo Aseguinolaza, Fernando  1, 4, 126, 185–186, 191, 196, 394, 605, 608, 632, 640, 650–651, 654, 656–657, 659 Cabot, Just  395 Cabral, António Bernardo da Costa 225 Cabré, Jaume  489, 495 Cabré, Lluís  320–322, 324, 326–327, 333 Cacho Blecua, Juan Manuel  324 Cacho Viu, Vicente  284 Cadalso, José  292 Cadavid Otero, Margarita  78 Cadenas, Juan José  476 Cádiz  84, 110–111, 120, 367, 371, 470, 584 Caetano, Marcelo  235, 305–306, 424, 426, 429–431, 555, 592 Caillavet, Gaston A. de  477 Calça, Francesc  330–331, 337 Calderón de la Barca, Pedro  31, 43–51, 53–54, 56, 77, 218, 222–223, 286, 616–617 Calleja, José María  503 Calles, Jara  502 Calvário, José  556 Calvin, John  58 Calvo Serer, Rafael  27 Calvo Sotelo, Leopoldo  556 Calvo Valdivieso, Laura  321 Calvo, Javier  448, 499 Câmara, João Gonçalves Zarco da 231–233

Index745 Camargo Crespo, Oscar  84 Cambó, Francesc  289 Camerario, Felipe  38 Cameroon 115 Camillus, Marcus Furius  307 Caminha, Pero de Andrade  173 Camões, José  128, 608, 655 Camões, Luís Vaz de  15, 127, 141, 143, 147, 150, 163, 172–173, 176, 178–183, 220, 225, 232, 285, 315, 403, 547, 634 Campa, Román de la  444 Campillo, Neus  590–591 Campos Rubio, Arantza  592 Campos, Álvaro de [see Pessoa, Fernando] Campos, Fernando  213 Camprodón, Francisco  476–477 Camprubí, Zenobia  262 Camus, Mario  541, 553 Canals, Antoni  319, 321–322, 324 Canals, Mercé  274 Canary Islands  9, 100–101, 114, 123, 375, 552, 590, 658 Cândido, Antônio  190 Canicio, Víctor  123 Cano, Harkaitz  500 Cansinos Assens, Rafael  79–80 Cantabria 588 Canto, Jorge Brum do  545–546 Cañadas Ortega, Araceli  7 Cão, Diogo  97 Cao, Emilio  14 Capdevila, Roser  275, 280 Cape Verde  91 Capp, Al [Alfred Gerald Caplin] 573 Caracas  374, 376, 379 Carballo Calero, Ricardo  485 Carbonell, Neus  447 Carceller, Ana  599 Cardín, Alberto  442, 595–596 Carducci, Giosuè  171 Cardwell, Richard Andrew  406 Carey, John  642 Carlos de Aragon [Prince of Viana] 322 Carlos de Austria [Spanish Prince] 311, 317 Caro Baroja, Julio  34–36, 40, 78–79, 81, 366–370, 456 Caroline Islands  471 Carpenter, Dwayne  356–357

Carrascosa, Sejo  598, 600 Carré Aldao, Eugenio  17 Carré Alvarellos, Leandro  229 Carrera Suárez, Isabel  588 Carrero Blanco, Luis  425 Carrillo, Víctor  453 Carrión, Jorge  499–500, 505 Carroll, Lewis  572 Carròs, Lluís  328–329, 332–333, 335 Cartagena 467–468 Carthage 25 Carvalho, José Adriano de Freitas 200, 202, 205 Carvalho, Maria Isabel  574 Carvalho, Mário de  212 Carvalho, Miguel Botelho de  138 Casanova, Pascale  618–619 Casanova, Rafael de  28–29 Casares Rodicio, Emilio  466, 481 Casares, Julio  39 Casas Homs, Josep Maria  262–263 Casas, Arturo  394–395, 399, 449, 657 Casas, Mário  561 Cascais, Fernando  601–602 Cascajosa, Concepción  451, 553, 608 Cascão, Rui  455–457 Caso González, José Miguel  364 Casona, Alejandro  234–235, 237 Casp 454 Castanheda, Fernão Lopes de  219 Castejón y Fonseca, Diego  202 Castellanos, Jordi  399 Castellet, Josep Maria  396, 399, 510 Castelló  584–585, 590 Castelló d’Empúries  263 Castiglione, Baldassare  141 Castile  2, 6, 12, 16–17, 23–28, 31, 34–35, 37–38, 58, 63, 87, 90, 93, 106, 110, 129, 185, 208–209, 218, 221, 263, 285, 289–291, 320–322, 326, 361, 373, 409, 509, 607, 633, 635, 639, 655 Castilla-La Mancha  369, 600–601 Castrejón, María  600 Castro, Américo  78, 82–83, 616 Castro, Aníbal Pinto de  158, 162, 172 Castro, Estêvão de  204 Castro, Eugénio de  385 Castro, Fernanda de  545 Castro, Inês de  16, 213, 225

Castro, João Baptista de  203 Castro, Manuel de Araújo de  221 Castro, Melchor de  202 Castro, Rosalía de  13, 16–17, 509, 627–628, 630 Catalan Countries [Països Catalans] 381 Catalonia  2, 6, 20–31, 100, 103, 105, 123, 129, 197, 218, 229–230, 259, 263, 285, 287–289, 299–300, 321, 324–326, 373, 386–387, 397, 406, 454, 496, 503, 508–510, 517–519, 524–525, 555–556, 597, 625, 629, 640, 655 Catiline [Lucius Sergius Catilina] 307 Cato, Marcus Porcius  307 Catullus, Gaius Valerius  293, 343 Catz, Rebecca  191 Cavalca, Domenico [Fr.]  385 Cela, Camilo José  9, 34, 101, 103– 104, 107–109, 111, 185–186, 189, 193, 627–628, 630 Celan, Paul [Paul Antschel]  618 Celaya, Gabriel  509 Celma Valero, María Pilar  404 Cephalas, Constantinus  382 Cercas, Javier  447, 490 Cernuda, Luis  662 Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de  31, 34, 36, 65, 77–78, 140, 143, 146, 148–149, 151–152, 154, 156, 159, 163, 166, 189–190, 197, 281, 326, 403, 441, 463, 491, 616, 641 Cesi, Federico  339 Cetina, Gutierre de  173, 326 Ceuta 84 Chacartegui, Consuelo  597 Chacón, Dulce  115 Chagas, Manuel Pinheiro  211, 240, 452–453, 456, 458 Chaland, Yves  572 Chamberlin, Vernon A.  80–81 Chambers, Ian  67 Chamizo, Patricio  123 Champeau, Geneviève  381 Chandler, Raymond  488 Chao Rego, Xosé  595 Chaparro, Álvaro  372–374 Chapí, Ruperto  471, 473–474, 479 Chapman, Glenn  279 Charlemagne [Holy Roman Emperor] 316–317

Index

746 Charles III of Spain  364–365, 369–370, 372 Charles V [Holy Roman Emperor] 60, 139, 146, 158, 213, 299, 311–313, 315–317 Charles VI [Holy Roman Emperor] 30, 373 Charles of Austria [see Charles VI] Charnon-Deutsch, Lou  457 Chartered Community of Navarre 409 Chartier, Roger  158, 390 Chávarri, Jaime  541 Chavy, Paul  650 Chevalier, Maxime  158 Chew, William  5 Chiado [António Ribeiro]  220 Chicharro, María del Mar  550 China  20, 67, 562 Chion, Michel  514–515 Chispero [see Ruiz Albéniz, Víctor] Chiziane, Paulina  637 Chopin, Kate  241 Christie, Agatha  429 Chrysostom, Dio  343 Chuck D [Carlton Douglas Ridenhour] 529 Chueca Goitia, Fernando  103–104 Chueca, Federico  471 Ciceri, Marcella  321 Cicero, Marcus Tullius  299, 319, 321, 324, 329, 341–343, 346 Cid, El [Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar] 211, 645 Cid López, Rosa María  581, 587–588 Cifré, Guillermo  572 Cifuentes, Lluís  320 Cinthio [see Giraldi, Gianbattista] Cintra, Luís Miguel  547 Ciplijauskaité, Biruté  245 Cirurgião, António  138 Clarín [see García Alas, Leopoldo] Claris, Pau  28 Cláudio, Mário [Rui Manuel Pinto Barbot Costa]  211 Clement VII [Pope]  356 Cleopatra  307, 317 Clifford, James  351–352, 354 Closa, Daniel  29 Clotet, Jaume  29 Clúa Ginés, Isabel  303–304, 653 Cobo, Rosa  590

Cobos Castro, Esperanza  476 Coci, Jorge  157 Cocles, Horatius  307 Cocteau, Jean  614 Codax, Martín  285 Coelho, Eduardo Prado  95, 543, 548 Coelho, Jacinto do Prado  191–193 Coelho, João Paulo Borges  637 Coelho, José Maria Latino  240 Coelho, Paulo  447 Coetzee, J.[ohn] M.[axwell]  490 Cohen, Deborah  648 Cohen, Judith  84 Coimbra  197–198, 220, 554, 594–595 Col·lectiu Emma  20, 31 Colaço, Tomás Ribeiro  545 Colaizzi, Giulia  447, 590 Colina, José Luis  552–553 Coll, Josep  572 Collell, Jaume  458 Collins, Billy  66 Collo, Paolo  362 Colmeiro, José F.  445, 624 Colocci, Angelo  384 Coloma Roldán, Luis [Father]  460 Coloma, Luis  538 Colombia 374 Colomo, Fernando  556 Colonna, Vittoria  172 Columbus, Christopher  8, 81, 87, 361 Comenius, John Amos  268 Comparetti, Domenico  310 Comte, Auguste  240 Concha, Ángeles de la  591 Conde, Alfredo  488 Conde, Lorenzo  531 Conesa, Carmen  556 Conesa, Jaume  319 Conrad, Joseph [Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski]  120 Constantine I [Roman Emperor] 611 Contreras, Jerónimo de  43 Corbey, Raymond  92 Corbière, Tristan  385 Cordeiro, Jacinto  221 Córdoba  476, 583 Córdoba, David  598 Córdoba, Eleazar  374 Cormenin [Vicomte, Louis Marie de La Haye]  456

Corneille, Pierre  222 Cornejo Parriego, Rosalía  654 Cornellà 519 Cornis-Pope, Marcel  4, 659 Cornut-Gentille D’Arcy, Chantal 439 Cornwall 292 Coronel Ramos, Marco Antonio 331–332, 336 Corral, Pedro del  322–323, 325 Correia, Carlos  92, 97–98 Correia, Hélia  212 Correia, Natália  267 Corroto, Paula  114 Cortada, Joan  24–25, 28 Corte-Real, Jerónimo  312–314, 316 Cortés, José Miguel G.  597 Cortez, Alfredo  233 Corti, Maria  145 Cortijo, Antonio  320 Coruña, A, 84, 102, 193, 229, 525, 578, 584, 590, 598, 624 Costa, Alves  545–547 Costa, Ana Cecília Machado da 200 Costa, João Bernard da  543, 548 Costa, Maria Velho da  592 Cota, Rodrigo  78 Cotarelo Valledor, Armando  14, 471 Cotrim, João Paulo  574 Council, Carol Rowell  579 Couroux, Mark  505–506 Courteline, Georges  477 Couto, Mia [António Emílio Leite Couto] 637 Covarrubias, Sebastián de  38, 140 Cramer, Florian  498 Crates of Mallus  309 Crete 104 Croisset, Francis de  477 Crommelinck, Henry  476 Cromwell, Oliver  259 Cronenberg, David  504 Crosby, James O.  56 Cross, Brian  529 Crovetto, Pier Luigi  362 Cruickshank, Don  51, 53, 157 Crumb, Robert  572 Cruz Contarini, Rafael  281 Cruz Filho, José da  171 Cruz, Agostinho da  173 Cruz, Carlos  555

Index747 Cruz, Fernando da  205 Cruz, Manuel Lopes da  554 Cruz, Penélope  558 Cruz, Ramón de la  34, 227, 366, 371 Csergo, Julia  480 Cuba  197, 227, 405, 470–471, 626 Cubedo, David  552 Cucala, Bartolomé  204 Cuenca Sandoval, Mario  499, 505 Cuerda, José Luis  541 Cunqueiro, Álvaro  14, 229, 398, 485, 488, 627–628, 630 Curaçao 374 Curel, François de  233 Curet, Francisco  477 Curtius [Quintus Curtius Rufus] 326 Curtius, Ernst Robert  139, 154, 294, 614 Curtiz, Michael [Mihály Kertész] 533, 539 Curto, Amílcar Ramada  233 Cutchet, Lluís  28 D D’Alta, Alfredo Ignacio  374 D’Annunzio, Gabriele  476 D’Errico, Corrado  539 Dalla, Lucio  511 Damasus I [Pope]  285 Damrosch, David  657 Danielewski, Mark Z.  498 Dantas, Júlio  232, 237, 544 Dante Alighieri  90, 160, 320, 329, 334, 338 Darío, Rubén [Félix Rubén García Sarmiento]  385, 406, 481 Dasilva, Xosé Manuel  127, 173, 175–176 Davies, Ann  442, 610 Davies, Catherine  442 De Palma, Brian  533 De Vito, Danny  533 Deacon, Philip  443 Decembrio, Pier Candido  326 Decter, Jonathan. P.  131, 133, 136 Del Virgilio, Giovanni  326 Deleito y Piñuela, José  468, 470 Deleuze, Gilles  66, 606 Delgado, Luisa Elena  440 Delgado, Sinesio  471 Delibes, Miguel  85, 212, 541 Della Casa, Giovanni  177

Delphi 49 Delpiano, Patrizia  205 Demóilo [see Machado y Ivares, Antonio] Denmark 432 Dennis, George  371 Denomy, Alexander J.  132 Derrida, Jacques  389, 441, 446, 464 Desbordes-Valmore, Marceline  385 Desclot, Bernat  28 Déu, Joan de  274 Devoto, Daniel  158 Diamante, Juan Bautista  80 Dias, Carlos Malheiro  211 Dias, Graça Silva  205 Dias, José Sebastião da Silva  205 Díaz Camacho, Manuel  228 Díaz del Castillo, Bernal  360 Díaz Lage, Santiago  450, 659 Díaz Martínez, Capitolina  579, 590 Díaz Plaja, Guillermo  407 Díaz, Elías  27 Díaz-Diocaretz, Myriam  447 Díaz-Mas, Paloma  74, 214–215, 641, 661 Diego, Estrella de  591 Díez de Toledo, Fernando  323 Díez Echarri, Emiliano  171 Díez González, Santos  235 Díez, Miguel Ángel  541 Dinis, Júlio  545 Diosdado, Ana  556, 560 Disney, Walt  572 Disop, El [Álex Martínez]  517, 525 Dix, Steffen  634 Dnoe [Silvia Sobé]  529 Docherty, Thomas  635, 637 Doležel, Lubomír  2, 390–391 Domínguez, Adolfo  442 Domínguez, César  1, 4, 126–127, 605–606, 608, 610, 632, 636, 640, 650–651, 654, 656–659 Donaldson, E. Talbot  132 Donézar García Nieto, Javier M. 425 Donnay, Charles Maurice  233 Donostia [or San Sebastián]  65, 69, 230, 260, 304, 411–412, 416–417, 421, 525 Dopico, Pablo  578 Dorfman, Ariel  636 Dorst, Tankred  237 Dostoevsky, Fyodor  241, 246, 612

Dougherty, Dru  468 Douglass, William A.  445 Doux, Emile  224 Dovzhenko, Aleksandr  539 Dreyfus, Alfred  477 Dronke, Peter  132–133 Drory, Rina  131, 133, 137, 351 Duarte, Luís Fagundes  253 Dubus, Eduardo  385 Ducrot, Oswald  383 Dueñas, María  490 Dullaart, Constant  499, 501, 503 Dumas, Alexandre  477 Dupont, Pierre  62 Duran, Eulàlia  327–328, 331 Durán, Manuel  287 Durán, María Ángeles  591 Ďurišin, Dionýz  657 Dutacq, Armand  187 Dworkin, Craig  503 Dylan, Bob [Robert Allen Zimmerman]  514, 522 E Eanes de Coton, Afonso  285 Eanes, António Ramalho  551, 557 East Africa  51 Eastern Europe  79, 102, 559, 653, 657 Echarri, Miguel de  540 Echegaray, José  539 Eckermann, Johann Peter  616–617 Eco, Umberto  276–277, 447, 486, 492, 494, 534 Ecuador 117 Eggers, Dave  498 Egido, Teófanes  200–202 Egypt  37, 47–48, 50–53, 91, 307 Einstein, Albert  271 Eisenberg, Daniel  157 Eisner, Will  573 Eiximenis, Francesc  326 Ejido, El  113 Ekk, Nicolai  539 El Hachmi, Najat  118 Ela [Ruiz]  528 Eleanor of Austria  171 Elias, Norbert  384 Eliot, T.[homas] S.[tearns]  642 Elísio, Filinto [Francisco Manuel do Nascimento ]  221 Elizabeth of Valois [Princess]  158, 311

Index

748 Elliott, John H.  59, 262–263, 649 Elola, José Antonio  540 Eminem [Marshall Bruce Mathers III] 522, 526 Empedocles 331 Enes, António  231 Engels, Friedrich  241 England  20, 30, 61, 76, 87, 94–95, 97, 102, 208, 311, 428, 467, 475, 551, 639 Enguix, Begoña  597 Epps, Brad  654 Equatorial Guinea  115, 447 Erasmus, Desiderius  347, 350, 483 Ercilla, Alonso de  314–316 Eres, José Benito  601 Erice, Víctor  442, 542 Erin 13 Ermengaud, Matfre  321 Escartí, Vicent Josep  327 Escrivá, Vicente  540 Espada Giner, Carmen  85 Espagne, Michel  647 Espanca, Florbela  638 España, Ramón de  577 Esparbes, George de  385 Espina, Alonso de [Fr.]  78 Espina, Concha  79 Espinel, Vicente  34 Espínola, Fradique  203, 205 Espinosa, Benito  83 Espinosa, Pedro  204, 383 Estébanez Calderón, Serafín  34 Estes, Rose  277 Esteva Fabregat, Claudio  596 Esteve, Cesc  3, 300 Esteve, Pedro Jaime  348 Estornés Lasa, José  375–376 Ethiopia  43, 45, 47–53 Etienvre, Françoise  447 Ettin, Andrew  141 Ettinghausen, Henry  60 Etxeberri, Ramuntxo  305, 420, 422 Etxenike, Luisa  7–8, 64–66, 69–73, 606 Etxepare, Bernat  409 Etxepare, Jean  411, 416 Europe  3, 9, 12–13, 33–34, 39, 41, 55, 59, 62, 67, 74–76, 78, 83, 87, 95–97, 99, 113, 115, 122, 140, 157, 186, 188, 223, 225, 235, 241–242, 260, 270, 282–283, 289, 291–293, 295, 297–298, 351, 354, 359, 362,

365–366, 371, 382, 402, 410, 419, 423, 469, 471, 473, 479, 537, 550, 552, 567, 569, 579, 584, 618, 629, 632–633, 637–638, 653 European Union  282–283, 551, 557, 559, 582 Eusebius of Caesarea  52 Euskadi  64–68, 70, 259, 287–288, 415, 417–418 Even-Zohar, Itamar  126, 402–403, 426–427, 437, 532–533, 657 Évora  157, 595 Evreinov, Nikolai  476 Extremadura  105, 290, 525 Eze, Emmanuel Chukwudi  364, 380 F Fabbri, Franco  513–514 Faber, Sebastiaan  440 Fagoaga, Concha  591 Fajardo, José Manuel  85 Fajardo, Martín  41 Falcones, Ildefonso  490, 495 Falla, Manuel de  35 Faria, Jorge de  237 Farias, Juan  270 Farinelli [Carlo Broschi]  366 Fariña Busto, María Jesús  451, 579, 590, 597, 601, 608 Farré, Lluís  274 Farrell, Joseph  309 Farry [Miguel Farriol]  571 Fary, El [José Luis Cantero Rada] 558 Fastenrath, Johannes  615 Faulhaber, Charles  320 Faulkner, William  573 Faus, Ángel  564 Fazenda, João  574 Febvre, Lucien  295 Feijóo y Montenegro, Benito Jerónimo [Fr.]  292, 364, 373 Feio, Raul  554 Felipe, León [Felipe Camino Galicia de la Rosa]  509 Feliu de la Penya, Narcís  31 Fenollet, Lluís de  326 Ferdinand [Infante of Portugal, Duke of Viseu]  319–320 Ferdinand I of Aragon  321, 324 Ferdinand I of Portugal  209 Ferdinand II of Aragon  14, 36, 218, 351, 362, 561

Ferdinand VII of Spain  223 Féris, Nicolau Felix  222 Fernandes, Diogo  169 Fernandes, Manuel Raia  138 Fernandes, Maria de Lurdes Correia 204 Fernández Ardavín, César  540 Fernández Caballero, Manuel  478 Fernández Cifuentes, Luis  446, 654 Fernández de Córdoba, Gonzalo [Duke of Sessa]  329–330, 336–337 Fernández de Heredia, Juan  323 Fernández de Lizardi, José Joaquín 188–189 Fernández de Moratín, Leandro 235, 259 Fernández Lasanta, Manuel  464 Fernández Mallo, Agustín  448, 500, 502, 505 Fernández Mosquera, Santiago  7, 43 Fernández Porta, Eloy  448, 499– 500, 502 Fernández Prieto, Celia  206, 623 Fernández Rivera, Enrique  9 Fernández y González, Manuel 454, 457–464 Fernández, James  256 Fernández, Javier  499 Fernández, Luis Miguel  447 Fernández, Norman  578 Fernández, Victoria  269 Fernández-Flórez, Wenceslao  541 Fernández-Rasines, Paloma  601 Fernando, S. H.  521 Fernán-Gómez, Fernando [Fernando Fernández Gómez] 541, 558, 567 Ferran d’Aragó [Duke of Calabria] 328 Ferrando de Cardona [Admiral of Naples] 329 Ferrante, Joan M.  132 Ferraté, Joan  399 Ferré, Juan Francisco  448, 499– 500, 504–505 Ferreira, António  173, 219–220 Ferreira, Jorge  161, 220 Ferreira, Seomara da Veiga  213, 215 Ferreira, Vergílio  266, 548 Ferreira, Virgínia  601 Ferreiro, Celso Emilio  18, 67–68, 509

Index749 Ferrer Valls, Teresa  158 Ferrer, Montserrat  320, 324 Ferrer, Victoria A.  586, 590 Ferro, António  237, 425, 536–537, 545, 547–548 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb  613, 618 Figueiredo, Fidelino de  172–173 Figueiredo, Manuel de  222 Figueras i Capdevila, Narcís  327 Figueras, Alfons  572 Figueroa, Antón  6, 18, 623, 659 Fitterman-Lewis, Sandy  533 Flanders  36, 95, 158 Flaubert, Gustave  241, 253–254, 460, 491–492 Flecha García, Consuelo  579–580, 587 Flers, Robert de  477 Florence  76, 332 Fluvià, Armand de  595–596 Focela, Mary  473 Foglietti, Luis  475 Foix, J.[osep] V.[icenç]  259, 265 Fokkema, Deuwwe  406 Folch de Cardona, Ferran [Duke of Soma] 330–331 Folch i Torres, Josep Maria  230 Foley, Barbara  207 Follett, Ken  447 Fonseca, Cristóbal  202 Fonseca, Manuel da  566 Fontana, José  284 Fontane, Theodor  241 Formosa, Feliu  263 Forneiro, José Luis  608 Forsyth, Frederick  494 Forzano, Giovacchino  539 Foucault, Michel  384, 389 Fowler, Alastair  126, 139 Fra Molinero, Baltasar  45 Frabetti, Carlo  571 Fradera, Josep Maria  20 Fraga Iribarne, Manuel  425, 431, 551 Fraga, Maria do Céu  126, 141 Fragnito, Gigliola  201 Fragoso, João de Matos  221 Fragoso, Manuel  237 Fraisse, Emmanuel  383 France  20, 37, 57, 59, 61–62, 72, 76, 84, 91, 94, 96–97, 100, 102, 113, 117, 123, 260, 282, 289, 311–313, 324, 357, 360, 373, 397, 409–411,

422–423, 428, 446–447, 466, 473, 475, 477, 482, 510, 540, 550, 572, 614, 646, 658 Francesca da Rimini  160 Francis I of France  35, 171, 313 Francisco de Portugal [Marquis of Valença] 222 Franco Bahamonde, Francisco  27, 29, 122–123, 196, 230, 256, 261, 282, 305–306, 409, 411–412, 424–425, 429, 432, 437, 439, 441, 443, 451, 509, 537, 550–552, 555, 560, 570, 579 Franco, Dolores  283 Franco, Jean  188 Franco, João  204 Franco, María Jesús  45 Frankfurt 495 Freeland, Alan  403 Freire, João Nunes  152 Freitas, José Rodrigues  545 Frenk Alatorre, Margit  132 Fresno Martín, Marisa  586 Freud, Sigmund  75 Freund, Scarlett  75–76 Frevert, Ute  646 Friedkin, William  564 Friedman, Anne  206 Friedman, Susan Stanford  440 Frith, Simon  512, 514–515, 525 Frontinus, Sextus Julius  321, 324 Frutuoso, Gaspar  145 Fuente, Pedro de la  204 Fuentes, Diego de  328, 333–334 Fumaroli, Marc  163 Fuster, Joan  327, 509 G Gabilondo, Joseba  256–257, 259, 302, 484, 489, 607, 609–610 Gabriel, Sharmani Patricia  354 Gagliardi, Donatella  346 Gaio, Manuel da Silva  211 Gaisser, Julia H.  293 Gala, Antonio  489 Galbraith, Iain  397 Galhegos, Manuel de  174 Galicia  2, 11–17, 19, 93–94, 100, 105, 129, 197, 199, 218, 228–229, 259, 285, 287–288, 290–292, 381, 386–387, 396, 445, 449, 484–485, 503, 509, 524, 556, 567, 590, 597, 621–630, 640

Gallaecia 14–15 Gallego Cuiñas, Ana  85 Gallego Méndez, María Teresa  581 Gallego Morell, Antonio  147, 287 Gallego, África  520 Gálvez de Cabrera, María Rosa  223 Gálvez de Montalvo, Luis  146, 154 Gálvez, Pepe  578 Gama, Arnaldo  211 Gama, Vasco da  87, 97, 212, 232, 315 Gamas, Las  41 Gamboa, Lore de [Carmen Balzer] 259 Ganivet, Ángel  286–287, 292, 616 Garate Ojanguren, Montserrat  376 Garção, Pedro António Correia 222 García Alas, Leopoldo [Clarín] 240–241, 244–246, 248–249, 251, 253, 255, 460–462, 464 García Benito, Nieves  122–123 García Berrio, Antonio  174–175 García Dauder, Silvia  600 García de la Huerta, Vicente  80 García de León, María Antonia 586 Garcia II of Galicia  15 García Lorca, Federico  34–35, 234–235, 237, 466, 468, 509, 541 García Márquez, Gabriel  34, 491 García Morejón, Julio  291 García Pelayo, Gonzalo  542 García Sánchez, José Luis  541 García Valdés, Alberto  595 García Viñolas, Manuel  538 García, Carmela  599 Garcia, Eduardo Chianca de  544 García, Juan Jesús  522 García, Víctor  238 García-Alvite, Dosinda  8 García-Nieto, María Carmen  425, 591 García-Posada, Miguel  494 García-Soler, Jordi  509 Gardner, Stanley  429 Garrett, Almeida [João B. da Silva L. de Almeida, Viscount of]  15, 192, 222, 224–225, 233, 235, 243, 650 Garusi, Alessandra  397 Garzón, Jacobo Israel  79 Gasca, Luis  573 Gasteiz [or Vitoria]  412

Index

750 Gay, Peter  645 Geertz, Clifford  620 Gellner, Ernest  401 Geneste, Pierre  62 Genette, Gérard  382, 384 Geneva 76 Genlis [Countess of, Stéphanie Félicité du Crest de Saint-Aubin] 268 Genoa  58, 60, 285 Georgetown 433 Gérard, Albert  650 Gerber, Jane S.  77 Germany  20–21, 37, 58, 84, 113, 117, 122–123, 185, 260, 267, 289, 342, 467, 476, 614, 639 Gernika 68 Gerrits, André  120 Gerschenkron, Alexander  646 Giardini, Carlo  397 Gibraltar  114, 658 Gide, André  258 Gies, David T.  441–443 Giffen, Lois  132 Gil de Biedma, Jaime  258, 260–261, 265 Gil Polo, Gaspar  139 Gil y Zárate, Antonio  653 Gil, Carmen  274 Gil, Eusebio  343 Gil, José  633 Gil, Rafael  538–540 Gilbert, Jeremy  523 Gili Gaya, Samuel  184, 192 Gillespie, Gerald  650 Gilman, Stephen  644 Gilroy, Paul  622, 636 Giménez Bartlett, Alicia  113, 115 Giménez-Rico, Antonio  541 Gimeno, Beatriz  600 Gimferrer, Pere  262–263 Ginebreda, Antoni  321 Giner de los Ríos, Francisco  402 Ginsberg, Judith  292 Giocovate, Bernard  171 Giradin, Emile de  187 Giraldi, Gianbattista [Cinthio]  162 Girona  26, 84 Gironell, Martí  489 Gironella, José María  490 Glaser, Edward  161 Głowinski, Michal  151 Goa 148

Gobbé-Mévellec, Euriell  129, 632 Gobineau [Count ], Joseph-Arthur 12 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von  127, 542, 613, 616–620 Goldoni, Carlo  222, 477 Goldsmith, Kenneth  499, 502–503 Gombár, Zsófia  427, 429, 432 Gomes Charino, Paio  285 Gómez Alfaro, Antonio  36 Gómez Castro, Cristina  305, 428–429, 433 Gómez de la Serna, Ramón  79 Gómez i Bayarri, José Vicente  327 Gómez Moreno, Ángel  200 Gómez Porro, Francisco  104, 366–367 Gómez Redondo, Fernando  1, 659 Gómez Sánchez, Francisco  228 Gómez-Martínez, José Luis  283 Gonçalves, Artur Henrique Ribeiro 191 Gonçalves, Elsa  384 Goncourt, Edmond de  262 Goncourt, Jules de  262 Góngora y Argote, Luis de  56, 127, 441, 509 González Besada, Augusto  14, 16 González de Bobadilla, Bernardo 148 González Fernández, Helena  397 González Garcés, Miguel  398 González García, Fernando  451, 635 González Ledesma, Francisco  542 González López, Emilio  621 González Palencia, Ángel  351 González Ruiz, Pilar  579 González, Agustín  558 Gonzalez, Maria Teresa Maia  92 González, Mário M.  190 González-Millán, Xoán  18, 393, 483, 485, 621, 625, 627–628, 630 Gopegui, Belén  114 Gordon, Douglas  533 Gordon, Noah  447 Gouveia, José Fialho  555 Gower, John  320 Goya, Francisco de  366 Goya, La [Aurora Purificación Mañanós Jauffret]  475 Goytisolo, Juan  123, 442 Gracia, Jordi  283, 447

Gracián, Baltasar  345, 441 Graham, Helen  443 Gramsci, Antonio  452, 459, 472 Granada  84, 101, 218, 368, 561, 581, 584–585, 587, 635 Grande, Edgar  646 Grandes, Almudena  489 Grandío, María del Mar  561 Granja, Paulo J.  545 Graton, Anthony  339, 341, 349 Gravelines 311 Graves, Robert  494, 572 Great Britain  31, 59, 388, 440 Greece  307, 550 Green, Jennifer L.  78, 83–84 Greenblatt, Stephen  295 Greene, Thomas  310 Gregorio, Leopoldo de [Marquis of Esquilache] 366 Gregory of Nazianzus [St.]  343 Grendler, Paul F.  350 Grespi, Guiseppina  321 Griffi [Javier Plaza]  519 Grisham, John  642 Grossman, Rudolf  397 Grotman, Alexis  86 Grüninger, Johann  310 Guadarrama 35 Guadix 41 Gual, Adrià  230, 236 Guarinos, Virginia  451, 563, 568, 661 Guasch, Oscar  596 Guattari, Félix  66, 606 Guerin Hill, Claudio  553 Guerra Da Cal, Ernesto [Ernesto Román Laureano Pérez Guerra] 188 Guerra, Álvaro  211 Guerra, Miguel  204 Guerrero Ruiz, Juan  262 Guerrero, Jacinto  474 Guido delle Colonne  319, 325 Guijarro Ceballos, Javier  200 Guijarro, Luis  552 Guillade, Xohán de  285 Guillén, Claudio  125–126, 185–186, 188, 190, 199, 395–396, 656 Guillén, Jorge  261 Guillory, John  532 Guimarães, Francisco Vaz de  546 Guimarães, Jorge  564 Guimarães, Manuel  545–546 Guimerà, Àngel  229

Index751 Guipúzcoa  65, 484 Gullón, Germán  246, 404, 493, 640, 642 Gupta, Charu  354 Gupta, Monisha Das  354 Gusmão, Alexandre de  222 Gutenberg, Johannes  160 Gutiérrez Aragón, Manuel  567 Gutiérrez Lanza, Camino  425, 433, 435 Gutiérrez López, Purificación  579 Gutiérrez Maeso, José  538 Gutiérrez Nieto, Juan Ignacio  34 Gutierrez, Encarnación  600 Gutiérrez, José María  542 Gutkin, Adolfo  238 Gutwirth, Eleazar  79, 360 Guyard, François  293 Guzmán, Luisa de [Queen of Portugal] 221 Guzmán, Thomás de  202 H Habermas, Jünger  636 Haidt, Rebecca  366–367, 371 Ha-Kohen, Joseph  355–356, 359–362 Halberstam, Judith  598 Ha-Levi, Judah  76, 351 Hamilton, Michelle M.  131, 357 Hammett, Dashiell  488 Hampsher-Monk, Ian  648 Ha-Nagid, Samuel  76 Hankins, James  349–350 Hannon, Théodore  385 Hansen, Hans Lauge  127 Hansen, Mark  498–499 Hardie, Philip R.  308 Hardy, Thomas  428 Harizi, Judah ben Solomon  351, 357 Haro, Luis de  331 Harrington, Thomas S.  65, 443 Harris, Wendell V.  532 Hartzenbush, Juan E.  476 Harvey, Leonard P.  164 Hatzfeld, Helmut  614 Haupt, Heinz-Gerhard  646–649 Hauptmann, Gerhart  476 Haussmann, Georges-Eugène [Baron] 471 Havana  229, 458 Hawthorne, Nathaniel  428 Hayek, Friedrich  502

Hayles, Katherine  499 Hayton of Corycus [Fr.]  324 Heaney, Seamus  522, 526 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 613 Hegoalde  304, 410–412, 414–416, 418–421, 423, 607 Heidelberg 382 Heliodorus of Emesa  7, 43, 50, 142, 163 Hennequin, Maurice  477 Henningsen, Manfred  25 Henrich, Manuel  460 Henrich-Franke, Christian  550 Henriques, Isabel Castro  98 Henriques, Maria Fernanda da Silva 595 Henríquez, José  567 Henry the Navigator [Prince of Portugal] 90 Henseler, Christine  442, 500 Heraclitus 262 Herculano, Alexandre  15, 209, 225, 284, 453, 650 Herder, Johann Gottfried von  613, 615, 620 Heredero, Carlos F.  540 Hergé [Georges Remi]  187, 572 Hermosilla, Alejandro  500 Hernández Girbal, Florentino 463–464 Hernández González, María Isabel 200 Hernández Ojeda, Carmen G.  601 Hernández Piñero, Aránzazu  600–601 Hernández, Miguel  34, 509 Hernández, Mili  597 Hernández, Rebeca  430 Herodotus  52, 349 Herralde, Gonzalo  541 Herrera, Fernando de  140, 151, 172–173, 326, 335, 441 Herrera, Javier  442 Herrero García, Miguel  56–57, 62, 100 Herrero Sánchez, Manuel  58 Herrero-Olaizola, Alejandro  430 Herskovits, Andrew  75, 77–78 Herzberger, David  27, 427 Hesiod 266 Hesmondhalgh, David  512 Hibbs-Lissorgues, Solange  456, 458

Higonnet, Margaret R.  4, 654–655 Hina, Horst  28 Hirigarai, Pantzo  414 Hirigoien, Arantxa  420 Hispaniola 362 Hitchcock, Alfred  533, 564 Hitchcock, Peter  636 Hobsbawm, Eric  284, 295, 368, 401 Hoerder, Dirk  647 Hokenson, Jan Walsh  127–128 Holland 60 Holland, Peter  217 Hollindale, Peter  91–92 Holy Roman Empire  53 Homer  162, 308–311, 336 Honorius, Flavius  14 Honrado, Alexandre  98 Hooper, Kirsty  445, 623–624 Hoppenbrouwers, Peter  93 Horace [Quintus Horatius Flaccus]  161–162, 341, 345 Horkheimer, Max  452 Horta, Maria Teresa  592–593 Hospitalet de Llobregat, L’  517, 519, 525 Huelva 584 Huesca 109 Hughes, Rolf  502 Hugo, Victor  278, 355, 477 Hurtado de Mendoza, Antonio  202 Hurtado de Mendoza, Diego  173 Hurtado de Mendoza, García  316 Hussey, Roland Dennis  375–376 Hutchenson, Gregory S.  442 Hutcheon, Linda  208, 215 Hutchinson, John  400–401, 403 Huyghe, Pierre  533 Hyman, Stanley E.  639 I Ibáñez Serrador, Narciso  553 Ibáñez, Francisco  572 Ibero-America 187 Ibiza 81 Ibn Dāwūd, Muḥammad b. Dāwūd b. ʿAlī b. Ḵẖalaf 132 Ibn Ezra, Abraham  76 Ibn Ezra, Moses  76, 131 Ibn Falaqera, Shemtob Ben Joseph 131 Ibn Gabirol, Solomon  76 Ibn Ḥ azm, Abū Muḥammad ʿAlī ibn Aḥmad ibn Saʿīd 132–133

Index

752 Ibn Shabbeay, Judah  357 Ibsen, Henrik  385, 476 Ife, Barry W.  161 Igartúa, Juan José  114 Iglesia, Antonio de la  391 Iglesia, Francisco María de la  228 Ihrie, Maureen  442 Ilie, Paul  29 Imízcoz, José María  372–374 Imperio, Pastora  479 Impey, Olga Tudorica  323 India  51–52, 212, 219 Indies  55, 58–61, 360–362, 374 Infantes, Víctor  157, 200 Ionesco, Eugène  237 Iparralde  304–305, 409–423, 607, 658 Iquino, Ignacio F.  538 Iranzo, José Miguel  124 Ireland  13, 94, 97, 292 Iriarte, Tomás de  480 Iriondo, Lourdes  508 Iriye, Akira  647 Irwin, Robert McKee  439, 441–442 Isabel de Coimbra [Infanta]  158 Isabella I of Castile  14, 36, 77, 213, 218, 351, 561 Isaiah 52 Isaura, Amalia  479 Isle of Man  292 Isocrates 343 Israel 85 Italy  21, 37, 55–56, 62, 94, 162, 172, 219, 308, 326, 342, 355, 357, 362, 397, 475, 510, 539–540, 550, 559, 592, 614 Iturriaga, José de  377 Itzaina, Joana  305, 422 Itzaina, Xabier  422 J Jacobi, Renate  132 Jacobs, Michael  371 Jaén 601 Jah, Yusuf  529 James I of Aragon  28, 332 James II of Aragon  320 Jameson, Fredric  408, 465 Japan 476 Jaraicejo 41 Jardí, Enric  284 Jauralde, Pablo  184 Jaureguízar, Santiago  500

Jeanne d’Albret [Queen of Navarre] 409 Jenner, Michelle  561 Jerez de la Frontera  367, 526 Jerome [St.]  297, 320 Jesus Christ  62, 202, 540, 612 Jesus, Tomé de  202 Jeune, Simon  293 Jiménez Lozano, José  212, 214 Jiménez, Carmen  117 Jiménez, Juan Ramón  262, 641 Jiménez-Belmonte, Javier  38, 41 João Manuel [Prince of Portugal] 158 Joaquim, Teresa  243, 593 John Chrysostom [St.]  343 John I of Aragon  323–324 John I of Castile  209, 323 John II of Navarre and Aragon 321–322 John II of Portugal  213 John III of Portugal  139, 158 John IV of Portugal  221 John XXIII [Antipope]  332 John of Berry [Duke]  324 John of Salisbury  324 John of the Cross [St., Juan de Yepes y Álvarez]  127, 200, 202 John of Wales  325 John V of Portugal  222 John VI of Portugal  190 Jonze, Spike  275, 498 Jordan, Barry  441, 443 Jorge, Lídia  638 Joseph I of Portugal  221 Josipovici, Gabriel  634 Jovellanos, Gaspar Melchor de  292, 364, 368, 372 Joyce, James  19, 634 Juan Carlos I of Spain  551, 555 Juan de Austria  312–315 Juan-Cantavella, Robert  499, 506 Juaristi, Jon  285–286, 288, 291 Judea 351 Júdice, Nuno  215 Judt, Tony  643 Jünger, Ernst  262 Julius Caesar, Gaius  312, 314, 349 Julius II [Pope]  356 Juneia, Monica  648 Junqueiro, Abílio Manuel Guerra 232 Juris, Jeffrey S.  84–85

Juristo, Juan Ángel  483 Justin [St.]  324 K Kaelble, Hartmut  647 Kafka, Franz  67, 572, 634 Kamen, Henry  8, 75, 83 Kamikaze [Rachid Baggasse]  527 Kant, Immanuel  364, 380, 612, 619, 640 Kaplan, Louise J.  243–244, 358 Kauffman, Stuart  502 Keightley, Ronald G.  321 Kellner, Douglas  450 Keown, Dominic  449 Kepler, Johannes  339 Kermode, Frank  532–533 Kern, Soren  74 Keskin, Ferda  439 Kierkegaard, Sören  619 Kinder, Marsha  442 King, Stephen  447 King, Stewart  6, 21 Klaniczay, Tibor  650 Klemperer, Victor  614 Kluback, William  287 Knox, Dilwyn  200 Kocka, Jürgen  646–649 Kogman-Appel, Katrin  76 Kohut, Kart  162 Köln 122 Kortazar, Jon  488, 606, 609, 641 Koselleck, Reinhardt  393–394, 648 Krahn, Fernando  270 Krause, Karl Christian Friedrich 240 Krauss, Werner  614 Krutwig, Federiko  411, 414 Kuin, Simon  87–88 Kunz, Marco  113–114, 118, 123 Kushner, Eva  650 L La Rubia Prado, Francisco  445 Labanyi, Jo  402–403, 443–444 Laboa, Mikel  508 Lacan, Jacques  370, 441 Lacarta, Manuel  101 Laclau, Ernesto  367 Ladagga, Reinaldo  500 Lafuente Estefanía, Marcial  429, 489 Lagares Díez, Xoán Carlos  384 Laguna, La  584–585, 590

Index753 Laínez, Diego  78 Lalana, Fernando  270 Lamartine, Alphonse de  254 Lamas Carvajal, Valentín  17 Lambert, José  609 Land, Nick  499 Landart, Daniel  305, 414–415, 418, 607 Landim 193 Lang, Fritz  539 Lang, Henry R.  132 Lang, Peter  444 Languedoc 132 Lannon, Frances  401 Lanzarote  123, 267 Laozi 547 Lapa, Manuel Rodrigues  392 Larra, Luis Mariano de  477, 480 Larra, Mariano José de  208–209, 282, 292, 460 Larrañaga Sarriegui, Mertxe  592 Larrea, Juan  259 Larsson, Stieg  447, 644 Larumbe, María Ángeles  579 Las Casas, Bartolomé de [Fr.]  360, 362 Lasagabaster, Jesús María  609 Laskey, Frances  4 Latin America  84, 102, 291, 303, 365, 373–374, 405, 407, 500, 523, 525, 559, 567, 628–629 Lauaxeta [see Urkiaga Basaraz, Estepan] Laurent of Blois  324 Lautréamont [Comte de, Isidore Lucien Ducasse]  385 Lavater, Johann Kaspar  259 Lavedan, Henri  233, 477 Lazar, Moshe  360 Lázaro Carreter, Fernando  446 Le Blanc, Keith  522 Le Bon, Gustave  482 Le Carré, John  429 Le Garrec, Evelyn  592 Le Roy, Mervin  539 Leach, Eleanor W.  310 Leal, Maria José Serpa Leote Gonçalves da Silva  157 Leblon, Bernard  34 Leconte de Lisle, Charles Marie René 385 Lecoq, Charles  474 Ledesma, Francisco  203

Ledo, Isabel  29 Leerssen, Joep  20–21, 55–56, 88, 91–92, 96, 100, 112, 120, 424, 437, 610 Lefevere, André  430 Leipzig 61 Leites, Edmund  241 Leizarraga, Joannes  409–410 Lejárraga, María  477 Lelian, Pobre [see Verlaine, Paul] Lemoges 23 Lemos, António Vieira de  173 Lemos, Mencía de  213 Lencastre, João de  173 Lenger, Friedrich  647 Lennon, John  514, 522 Leo the Hebrew [Judah Leon Abravanel] 141 Leo X [Pope]  356 León  15, 100, 106, 109, 218, 361, 427, 585, 588 León, Juan Francisco de  375 León, Luis de [Fr.]  83, 200, 202– 203, 243 Leonard, Irving A.  159 Leoz, Daniele  588 Lepanto  169, 312–316 Lerroux, Alejandro  290 Lertxundi, Benito  508 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim  309 Lete, Xabier  508 Letourneur, Pierre  355–356, 360 Leutrat, Jean-Louis  535 Levenson, Michael  634 Levin, Harry  642 Levinas, Emmanuel  609 Levine, Philippa  647, 649 Lewis, C.[live] S.[taples]  136 Lida, Denah  78, 81 Liern, Rafael María  474 Lima, Álvaro  544 Lima, António  232 Limousin  24, 330 Linares Rivas, Manuel  472 Lindskov Simonsen, Karen-Margrethe 4 Lipking, Lawrence  653, 658 Lisbon  98, 102, 158, 188, 190–191, 193, 196–197, 214, 221–222, 224, 231–232, 234, 251, 254–255, 265, 426, 444, 453, 455, 458, 462, 550, 554–557, 566, 593–594, 602–603, 636, 660

Livy [Titus Livius]  310, 319, 324– 325, 341, 349 Lizardi, Xabier [José María Aguirre Egaña]  412, 414, 418 Llamas, Miriam  503 Llamas, Ricardo  596–598 Lledó, Eulalia  592 Lleida  517, 589 Llor, Miquel  249 Llorens, Chufo  489, 491 Lloret de Mar  20 Lloret, Albert  326–327 Llull, Ramon  28, 156, 320 Lobato, Baltasar Gonçalves  166, 169 Lobo, Francisco Rodrigues  138, 140, 144–145, 153, 163 Locke, John  268 Lofrasso, Antonio de  138, 146, 154 London  97, 102, 259, 288, 479, 551 Lopes, Fernando  557 Lopes, Fernão  213 Lopes, Jeronimo  157 Lopes, Manuela Moniz  94, 97 Lopes, Silvina Rodrigues  207–208 López Bago, Eduardo  250, 254 López Bernagossi, Inocencio  454, 458 López Casas, Mercè  327 López de Ayala, Pero  319, 324 López de Gómara, Francisco  301–302, 352, 360–362 López de Hoyos, Juan  332, 334, 337 López de Mendoza, Íñigo [Marquis of Santillana]  321–322, 326 López de Montoya, Pedro  341–342 López Estrada, Francisco  138, 140, 142, 144, 159 López Ferreiro, Antonio  210 López García, Ángel  606–607 López García, José Miguel  365 López García-Berdoy, María Teresa 144 Lopez Gaseni, Manu  609 López Hernández, Marcela  171 López i Verdejo, Voro  327 López Narváez, Concha  270 López Penedo, Susana  600 López Pinciano, Alonso  162 López Rubio, José  539 López Silva, José  471 López Vázquez, José Luis  555 López, Antonio  210, 442

Index

754 Lopo, Antón [Antón Rodríguez López] 500 Lorenzo, Ricardo  595 Los Angeles  64 Losada, Elena  126 Losilla, Carlos  541–542 Lotman, Iuri  394 Louis of Granada [Fr.]  201–202, 205 Louis XIV of France  30, 409 Louis XVI of France  366 Loureiro, Ángel G.  256–257, 446 Loureiro, Maria Olímpia da Cunha 204 Lourenço, Eduardo  88, 286, 633, 654 Lovecraft, H.[oward] P.[hilips]  487, 504, 572 Low Countries  55, 61 Loyola, Ignacio de  78, 201–202, 343 Lucan [Marcus Annaeus Lucanus] 314–315 Lucca 76 Lucena, João de  155 Lucena, Juan de  78 Luceño, Tomás  463, 476–477 Lucía Megías, José Manuel  157, 160, 170 Lucía, Luis  538 Lucian 383 Lüsebrink, Hans-Jürgen  649 Lugones, Leopoldo  171 Lugrís Freire, Manuel  228 Luís de Portugal [Duke of Beja]  173 Luís, Nicolau  222 Luján, Pedro de  346 Luku, Antton  412, 419, 421 Lumbier 332 Luna, Lola G.  585 Luna, Pablo  474 Luther, Martin  58 Luxemburg 97 Ly, Nadine  381 Lyotard, Jean- François  275 M Macau 91 Macedo, Ana Gabriela  592, 594–595 Macedo, António de  546 Macedo, Helder  215 Maceira Fernández, Xosé Manuel 290

Machado y Ivares, Antonio [Demóilo] 472 Machado, Álvaro Manuel  430 Machado, Antonio  31, 34, 220, 407, 472, 509, 539, 541, 642 Machado, Julio César  462 Machado, Manuel  34, 477, 539, 541 Machado, Simão  220 Macías, Santiago [El Enamorado] 56, 285 Mackay, Robin  499, 504 MacLean, Derryl N.  354 Macrobius, Ambrosius Theodosius 298 Madaíl, Cremilde  94, 97 Madariaga, Salvador de  82 Madeira Islands  92 Madrid  2, 9, 22, 26–27, 31, 35, 51, 63, 79–81, 84–85, 101–111, 119, 123, 193, 212, 220, 227, 230, 235–236, 243, 247, 272, 288–291, 333, 336, 366– 367, 369–371, 373, 375, 402, 441, 446, 448, 455–458, 464, 466–471, 475, 480–481, 508, 518, 524–526, 528–529, 550, 552–553, 556, 562, 566–567, 579–582, 584–585, 597, 599, 635 Madrid, Juan  542 Maestro, Jesús G.  642 Maeterlinck, Maurice  476–477 Maeztu, Ramiro de  291, 607 Magalhães, Álvaro  92 Magalhães, Ana Maria  89, 91–94, 96–97, 99 Magallanes, Manuel Vicente  374 Magdeburg 76 Magellan, Ferdinand [Fernão de Magalhães] 87 Magnien, Brigitte  457 Magris, Claudio  66 Maia, José Matos  565 Maimonides, Moses [Moses Ben Maimon]  76, 131, 360 Maine 621 Mainer, José-Carlos  282, 453, 608, 659 Mairena, Antonio  369 Majorca  22, 81, 84, 212, 520 Malachi, Zvi  358–359 Málaga  84, 227–228, 468, 584, 587 Malatesta, Paolo  160 Maldonado, Juan  341–342 Malkiel, Yakov  82–83

Mallarmé, Stéphane  385 Malo, Payo [José Antonio Abril Fornieles] 524 Malraux, André  389 Malta 312 Man, Paul de  636 Mancha, La  102–103, 105, 111, 281, 367 Mandell, Laura  385 Mandrell, James  441–442 Manent, Marià  263, 399 Manero, Salvador  454 Maniken, Helka  217 Manila 261 Mankell, Henning  488 Manlius, Marcus  307 Manterola Agirrezabalaga, Elizabete 609 Manuel de Portugal [Dom, Comendador of Vimioso]  153 Manuel María [Fernández Teixeiro] 509 Mañas, José Ángel  643 Mañé i Flaquer, Joan  21, 23 Maragall, Joan  287 Maravall, José  369 Marbella 84 March, Ausiàs  28, 176, 179, 300, 326–338 March, Kathleen  621 Marco, Joaquín  456 Marcos de Dios, Ángel  290–291 Marcus, Greil  631 Marfany, Joan Lluís  28, 399 Margarido, Alfredo  286 María “la Canillas” [Marina Abad] 528 María de Jesús de Ágreda [María Coronel y Arana]  202 Maria II of Portugal  211 Maria Manuela [Princess of Portugal]  139, 311 Mariana, Juan de  345 Marías, Javier  489, 633 Marichal, Juan  283 Marín Pina, María Carmen  157 Mariner, Vicent  326–327, 331–332, 334, 336 Marinho, Maria de Fátima  128, 208 Mariscal, Javier  15, 571 Mark Antony  307, 315 Mar-Molinero, Clare  401 Marnoto, Rita  172

Index755 Márquez Villanueva, Francisco  351 Marquina, Eduardo  476 Marquina, Pascual  35 Marrakesh 528 Marsé, Juan  65, 489, 541 Martelo, Rosa Maria  207 Martí Monterde, Antoni  614 Martí, José  385 Martí, Josep  511 Martín Alegre, Sara  439 Martín Barbero, Jesús  459 Martín Gaite, Carmen  282, 366, 368, 370–371 Martín García, Teresa  580 Martín Giráldez, Rubén  500 Martín Lucas, Belén  590 Martin of Aragon  323 Martín, Andreu  542 Martín, Annabel  7–8, 65–66, 606, 609 Martín, Luis G.  113 Martines, Vicent  326 Martín-Estudillo, Luis  446, 654 Martínez Almoyna, Joaquín  173 Martínez Benlloch, Isabel  581 Martínez de Toledo, Alfonso  357 Martínez Dhier, Alejandro  36 Martínez Espada, Manuel  477 Martínez López, Ramón  621 Martínez Maza, José María  551 Martínez Pereira, Ana  200 Martínez Reverte, Jorge  542 Martínez Romero, Tomàs  323–324 Martínez Ruiz, José [Azorín]  292, 404–405, 643 Martínez Sierra, Gregorio  477 Martínez Ten, Carmen  579 Martinez Thomas, Monique  277 Martínez Uceda, Juan  552 Martínez, Cándida  587 Martínez, Jesús A.  455 Martínez, Marcos  382–383 Martínez, Teófilo  566 Martínez-Carazo, Cristina  442 Martínez-Gil, Víctor  288–289 Martins, Joaquim Pedro de Oliveira 226, 259, 291 Martín-Santos, Luis  9, 34, 101, 104, 108–110, 427, 541 Mártir Coma, Pere  200 Martorell, Joanot  300, 319–320, 322–323, 325–326 Marulić, Marko  340

Mary I of England [Mary Tudor] 311 Maspons, Pilar  29 Mata, Inocência  633, 636–637, 658 Mata, Pere  24 Matilla, Luis  273 Mattelart, Armand  445, 636 Mattoso, José  92 Maugham, Robin  428 Maurice, Jacques  446 Maurier, Daphne du [Dame]  428 Max [Capdevila i Gisbert, Francesc] 451, 571–574, 577–578 Mayans y Síscar, Gregorio  202 Mayo, Archie  539 Mayorga, Juan  564 McGaha, Michael  441 McGann, Jerome J.  641 McPheeters, Dean  356 McRobbie, Angela  525 Méchoulan, Henry  355 Medeiros, Paulo de  426, 444 Medem, Julio  69, 442 Medina del Campo  158 Medina, Alberto  364, 372 Medina, Miguel de  212 Medina, Susana  500 Meendiño 285 Meleager of Gadara  381–382, 384 Melilla 84 Meller, Raquel  473 Melo, Daniel  426–428 Melo, Francisco Manuel de  220, 243 Melo, João de  489 Melo, Jorge Silva  238, 547 Melo, Sebastião José de Carvalho e [Marquis of Pombal]  222 Melot, Michel  386 Melville, Herman  612 Mena Cabezas, Ignacio Ramón  34 Mena, Juan de  78, 325, 329 Menàrguens 28 Mendes, Aquilino  545 Mendes, José Amado  455 Mendes, Paula Cristina Almeida  203 Méndez Ferrín, Xosé Luís  14, 509 Méndez Guédez, Juan Carlos  116, 118–119 Méndez Rubio, Antonio  447 Méndez, Lourdes  581, 592 Mendicutti, Eduardo  117, 121, 442, 597

Mendoça, Rodrigo de  383 Mendonça, Henrique Lopes de 231–232 Mendoza, Eduardo  195–196, 494 Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino  173, 407, 616, 639 Menéndez Pidal, Ramón  78–79, 616, 640, 661 Menéres, Maria Alberta  92, 98 Meneses, João Paulo  569 Menezes, Francisco Xavier de [Count of Ericeira]  222 Menorca 111 Meogo, Pero  285 Mercader i Carròs, Gaspar  147 Mercado, José  369 Mercero, Antonio  553, 555–557 Mérida Jiménez, Rafael  598 Mérimée, Prosper  35 Merino, Ana  451 Merino, José María  85 Merino, Raquel  432 Merwin, William Stanley  187 Mesa, Enrique de  477 Meseguer, Lluís  510 Mesonero Romanos, Ramón de  9, 101, 105–107 Mesquita, Marcelino  231 Metge, Bernat  28, 320, 357 Mettius Fufetius  307 Mexía, Pedro  298 Mexico  188–189, 373–374, 429, 568, 626 Meyer, Johannes  539 Meyer-Minnemann, Klaus  185, 199 Michelangelo [Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni] 278 Michelena, Luis [or Koldo Mitxelena]  410, 609, 661 Michelet, Jules  244, 253 Middell, Matthias  647 Middle East  352 Middleton, Richard  507, 515–516 Miguéis, José Rodrigues  566 Miguel, António Dias  158 Miguel, Luna  503 Miguélez-Carballeira, Helena  445, 623 Milà i Fontanals, Manuel  24 Milan  55, 76, 589 Milán, Luis  203 Mill, John Stuart  240

Index

756 Millares Cantero, Sergio  123 Millás, Juan José  489 Miller, Carolyn R.  206 Millington, Mark L.  441 Min Wotipka, Christine  579 Minho  238, 444, 595, 602 Miñarro, Lola  269 Miquis, Alejandro  111, 468 Mira de Amescua, Antonio  79 Mira, Alberto  597 Mirabet i Mullol, Antoni  595 Miralles, Francesc  489 Miranda, Andrés  374–375 Mirande, Jon  414, 416, 418–419 Miró, Pilar  541–542 Mistral, Frédéric  230 Mitchell, Timothy  368–369, 372 Moebius [Jean Giraud]  572 Moix, Ana María  442 Moix, Llàtzer  494 Molas, Joaquim  22, 28, 327, 396, 399, 510 Molière [Jean-Baptiste Poquelin] 222, 229 Molina Petit, Cristina  591 Molina, Josefina  541, 553 Molina, Ricardo  369 Molina, Tirso de [Fr. Gabriel Téllez] 77 Moliner, Empar  489 Mollà, Toni  263 Möller, Patrick  562 Molloy, Sylvia  256, 442 Moltó, María Luisa  590 Mompox 374 Monção 221 Mönch, Walter  174 Monegal, Antonio  447 Moniz, Maria Lin  426, 428, 431–432 Monmouth, Geofrey of  156 Montaigne, Michel de  619 Montanari, Raul  511 Montañés, Jaime  204 Monteagudo, David  489 Monteagudo, Henrique  290 Monteiro, Adolfo Casais  264 Monteiro, Diogo  202 Monteiro, João César  543, 548 Monteiro, Luiz de Sttau  237 Monteiro, Paulo Filipe  546 Monteiro, Rosa  601 Montello, Josué  190

Montemayor [or Montemor], Jorge de  78, 138–140, 142–143, 146– 149, 151, 154, 174, 326–328, 330, 333–335, 337, 383 Montero, Javier  499 Montijo 41 Montijo, Eugenia de [María Eugenia Palafox Portocarrero y Kirkpatrick] 476 Montjuich 22 Montoya, Luis de  201 Montreal 124 Montseny 22 Montserrat 22 Montserrat, David de  29 Monzó, Quim  489 Moore, Barrington  646 Mora y Aragón, Fabiola de [Queen Consort of Belgium]  551 Mora, Vicente Luis  448, 499–501 Morais, Francisco de  157, 168–169 Moral, Rafael del  101, 104 Morales Padrón, Francisco  375–376 Morales, Thais  601 Morán, César  382 Morant, Isabel  585, 590 Moraña, Mabel  654 Morato, Juan José  456, 464 More, Thomas [Sir]  483 Moréas, Edgar  385 Moreiras, Alberto  441, 443 Moreiras, Cristina  442 Moreno Astray, Félix  458 Moreno, Ángel  597 Moreno, Javier  448 Moret, Xavier  428 Moretti, Franco  126 Morgan-Tamosunas, Rikki  443 Morocco  79, 84, 123, 285 Morrisey, Paul  533 Morrison, Jim  514 Moscoso, Xerardo  509 Moscow 242 Mourão-Ferreira, David  172 Moure, Teresa  591 Moyano, Claudio  402 Mozambique  193, 284, 637 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus  64 Muchacho, Mucho [Oliver Gallego Sarmiento] 524 Muchamiel 111 Mühlberg 313

Muḥammad XII of Granada [Boabdil] 368 Mulinacci, Roberto  138 Munibe e Idiáquez, Xabier de [Count of Peñaflorida]  376, 378–379 Muntaner, Ramon  28 Muñoz Molina, Antonio  8, 85, 489 Muñoz Seca, Pedro  466, 472, 480 Murasaki, Shikibu  543 Murcia  84, 517, 585 Murguía, Manuel  12–13, 15–17, 394, 454, 457–458 Musa, Mark  181 N Nabal, Eduardo  601 Nadal, Alberto  116 Nadal, Josep Maria  282 Nahmanides, Moses  76 Naïr, Sami  123 Nakládalová, Iveta  300 Nalle, Sara  159 Namora, Fernando  192–193, 545–546 Naples  55, 322, 329, 332, 362 Napoleon I [Napoléon Bonaparte]  87, 206, 210–211 Nash, Mary  585, 587, 589 Nava, La  261 Navaggero, Andrea  171 Navarra, Pedro de  204 Navarre  322, 325, 373, 409, 413–414, 416 Navarrete, Carmen  599 Navarro Peiro, Ángeles  137 Navarro Villoslada, Francisco  209 Navarro, Joan  327 Navarro, Julia  489, 494 Navas Ocaña, Isabel  447 Naveros, Miguel  115, 122 Nazaré, Aníbal  566 Nazario [Luque Vera]  571 Ndongo-Bidyogo, Donato  113, 115 Nebrija, Elio Antonio de  342 Negarestani, Reza  498, 501, 505 Negreiros, José de Almada  234 Negrelli, Leo  171 Neira Vilas, Xosé  17, 484 Nemésio, Vitorio  566 Neri, Felipe [St.]  259 Netanyahu, Benzion  83 Netherlands  55, 58–61, 639

Index757 Neto, Margarida  456 Neubauer, John  1, 4, 659 Neumann, Birgit  449 Neuschäfer, Hans  435 Nevada 445 Neves, Abel  238 Neveu, Érik  445 New Granada  374 New Mexico  64 New Spain  189, 360 New York  64, 290, 445, 479, 573, 621, 625 Nguyen hi Lien Hang  354 Nicholson, Francisco  557 Nicolau, Guillem  321, 323, 325 Niebla 323 Nielfa, Gloria  591 Nieremberg, Juan Eusebio de  204 Nieto, José Antonio  596 Nietzsche, Friedrich  389 Nieva, Francisco  567 Nieves Conde, José Antonio  540 Nikolajeva, Maria  88–89 Noam, Eli  550 Nogueira, Conceição  595, 602 Nombela y Tabares, Julio  457–458, 462 Nora, Pedro  574 Norandi, Elina  600 Nordau, Max  385 Normandy 241 North Africa  84, 351, 471 North America  189, 419, 428–429, 433, 621, 626–627 North-West Africa  91 Northern Europe  378, 592 Norwich 522 Nove, Aldo  511 Novoneyra, Uxío [Eugenio Novo Neira] 509 Nucio, Martín  50 Nünning, Ansgar  449 Nunes, Airas  285 Núñez de Oria, Francisco  316–317 Núñez de Reinoso, Alonso  43, 140 Núñez Ribera, Valentín  200–201 Núñez Seixas, Xosé Manoel  12 Núñez, Carlos  14 O O’Connor, Maura  648 O’Dwyer, Manus  4 O’Neil, Maria Amélia  436

Óbidos 547 Occitania 300 Ockham, William of  40 Odartey-Wellington, Dorothy  2 Ofenbach, Jacques  471, 474 Ohanes 41 Ohmann, Richard  452 Olavarriaga, Pedro José de  377 Olaziregi, Mari José  609 Olea, Pedro  553 Olivares [Count-duke of, Gaspar de Guzmán y Pimental]  263 Olivares, Javier  562 Oliveira, Anabela Branco Dinis de 444 Oliveira, Francisco Xavier [Cavaleiro de Oliveira]  221, 259 Oliveira, José Osório de  95 Oliveira, Manoel de  536, 543, 545–546, 548 Oller, Ana [Francisco Orellana] 454 Oller, Dolors  511 Oller, Narcís  241, 246, 460, 462 Olmeda, Fernando  601 Olózaga, Raquel  600 Olszewski, Lawrence  195 Olwer, Nicolau de  395 Ommundsen, Wenche  207 Onetti, Antonio  569 Ong, Walter  643 Opisso, Ricard  572 Ordes 525 Ordóñez, Alfonso  356 Orduña, Juan de  538 Orellana, Francisco [see Oller, Ana] Oriente, Fernão Álvares do  144, 147–148, 150 Ornelas, José  444 Ors, Eugenio de  284, 287, 289 Ortega y Frías, Ramón  454, 460–461 Ortega y Gasset, José  129, 256, 289–290, 372, 614, 616 Ortega, Esther  600 Ortega, Julio  448, 500, 654 Ortiz Gómez, Teresa  580, 587 Ortiz Sobrino, Miguel Ángel  564 Ortiz, Lourdes  213–214, 567 Ortuño, Francisco  569 Orwell, George  619 Osborne, Raquel  591, 599 Osoro, Jasone  487–488, 608

Ostend 36 Otero Pedrayo, Ramón  13, 287, 291–292 Otero, Blas de  509 Otero-Blanco, Ángel  129, 608 Oteyza, Luis de  477–478 Ottawa 102 Ottoman Empire  301, 351–352, 358 Otxoa, Julia  7–8, 64–67, 69, 606 Ourdrid, Cristóbal  474 Ourense  107, 197 Ovejero, José  114, 117 Overton, Bill  241 Ovid [Publius Ovidius Nasso]  132, 321, 323, 325–326, 343, 346 Oviedo  584, 588, 591 Owen, Hilary  444 Oyarzún, Kemy  583 Oyharçabal, Beñat  410 Ozores de Ulloa, Gonzalo  210 P Pacheco Troconis, Julián  375 Pacheco, Fernando Assis  197 Paço d’Arcos, Joaquim [Joaquim Belford Correia da Silva]  237 Padilha, Laura Cavalcante  633, 636, 651 Páez, Pedro  51 Pagden, Anthony  59 Pagès Jordà, Vicenç  500 Pagès, Amadeu  327–331, 333–337 Pajares Tosca, Susana  449 Palacio Valdés, Armando  240, 245, 249, 452, 458–461, 465 Palacio, Manuel  550–551, 556 Palacios Quintero, Xabier  373 Palafrugell 263 Palau, José  531 Palencia, Ceferino  477 Palladius, Rutilius Taurus Aemilianus 321 Pallicé, Ramon  29–30 Pallu, George  544 Palma-Ferreira, João  191, 193, 196 Palmireno, Lorenzo  203, 340, 347–348 Palol, Miquel de  489 Palomero, Josep  510 Pàmies, Sergi  489 Pàmies, Xavier  496 Pardo Bazán, Emilia  240, 246, 255, 285, 460, 627–628, 630

Index

758 Pardo de Cela, Pedro [Marshal] 14–15 Paris  69, 97, 102, 187–188, 211, 243, 260, 316, 368, 373–374, 416, 447, 473–474, 476–477, 479, 658 Parker, Alexander A.  184 Parker, Geoffrey  61–62 Parmar, Maya  354 Parmenides 331 Parsons, Deborah L.  441 Pascoaes, Teixeira de [Joaquim Pereira Teixeira de Vasconcelos] 16, 286 Paso, Alfonso  472 Paso, Antonio  472, 476–477 Pato, Chus  503 Patrício, António  233 Patrício, Paulo  574 Patrick [St.]  324 Patterson, Annabel  310 Patterson, Craig  445 Paul [St.]  160 Paul of Burgos [Solomon Levi]  76 Paulmann, Johannes  647 Pavia 313 Pavlovic, Tatjana  443 Payne, Stanley  287 Pazos-Alonso, Cláudia  444 Pearce, Susan Mary  390 Pearson, Ewan  523 Peck, Harry Thurston  482 Pedreira, Maria do Rosário  92 Pedro de Ribadeneira [Pedro Ortiz de Cisneros]  203 Pedro I of Portugal  559 Pedro of Valladolid  321 Pedrolo, Manuel de  487 Pedrosa, José Manuel  608 Peers, Edgar Allison  22 Pemán, José María  553 Penedo, Leão  545 Pennsylvania 639 Peña Ardid, Carmen  447 Peña y Goñi, Antonio  470–473, 475 Peñalver, Diana  556 Pepicheck [Josep Farriol]  571 Pepys, Samuel  259 Perdomo Reyes, Inmaculada  586 Pere Joan [Riera]  572, 578 Pereda, José María de  240, 245, 248, 460–461 Perednik, Gustavo D.  74 Pereira, Ana Teresa  92

Pereira, José Esteves  205 Pereira, Maria de Lourdes  592 Pereira, Maria do Mar  593 Pereira, Nuno Álvares  90 Pereira, Paulo Silva  144 Perellós, Ramon de  324 Pérès, Henri  132 Pereyra, Abraham  355 Pérez Bowie, José Antonio  447, 451, 537, 635 Pérez de Ayala, Martín  204 Pérez de Ayala, Ramón  35, 466, 614 Pérez de Ledesma, Gonzalo  344–345 Pérez de Montalbán, Juan  51, 56 Pérez Escrich, Enrique  460–461 Pérez Galdós, Benito  9, 34, 78–82, 101, 103–104, 107, 109–111, 210, 240–241, 245–248, 255, 372, 452, 459–463, 468, 555, 642, 644 Pérez Isasi, Santiago  657, 663 Pérez Sedeño, Eulalia  579, 592 Pérez Ugarte, Javier  600 Pérez, Alonzo  139 Perez, Janet  442 Pérez, Joseph  76–77 Pérez, Xavier  533, 535 Pérez-Reverte, Arturo  447, 489, 494 Pérez-Sánchez, Gema  442 Peri Rossi, Cristina  442 Périon, Joachim  340 Perkins, David  658 Perlof, Marjorie  502 Pernau, Margrit  648 Perrault, Charles  544 Perrot, Jean  276, 280 Perry, Marvin  77 Persia 419 Pertinaz, Doc  390 Peru 373–374 Perugia 76 Pessanha, Camilo  650 Pessoa, Carlos  238 Pessoa, Fernando  129, 233, 258– 259, 264–265, 285–289, 543, 634 Peter IV of Aragon  323 Pedro de Coimbra [Constable of Portugal]  320, 322, 325 Petit, Jordi  599 Petrarch [Francesco Petrarca]  152, 171, 175–178, 181, 320–321, 324–325, 329, 332–338, 383

Philip II of Spain  55, 102, 139, 158, 299, 311–317 Philip III of Spain  35 Philip IV of Spain  33, 159, 263 Philip V of Spain  28–31, 373 Philippines  197, 261, 266 Philippus of Thessalonica  381 Phocylides 343 Pi i Margall, Francesc  287 Piccus, Jules  358 Pichardo, J. Ignacio  597 Picornell, Mercè  449 Piferrer, Pablo  28 Pigna, Giovanbattista  162–163 Pilate, Pontius  62 Pillado Mayor, Manuel Lorenzo 228 Pimentel, António  204 Pina Domínguez, Mariano  477 Pina, Álvaro  444 Pina, Luís de  543 Pinheiro, Rafael Bordalo  231 Pino, Enrique del  226, 228 Pino, José María del  445 Pinós, Francesc de  326 Pintassilgo, Maria de Lourdes  593 Pinter, Harold  237 Pinto, Amílcar da Silva  231 Pinto, Júlio Lourenço  231, 240, 250, 254 Piñeiro, Ramón  16 Pirandello, Luigi  476 Pirbhai, Mariam  354 Pires, José Cardoso  192–193, 489, 545 Pires, Sebastião  220 Piscator, Erwin  236 Pitarra, Serafí [Frederic Soler i Hubert] 229 Pius XII [Pope]  539–540 Pizarro, Jerónimo  634 Pla, Albert  513 Pla, Josep  129, 193–194, 199, 258– 261, 263, 265 Pla, Xavier  263 Plácido, Ana  245 Plana, Alexandre  397 Planelles, Albert  396 Plans, Juan José  567 Plant, Sadie  499 Planudes, Maximus  382 Platero, Raquel  600 Plato  42, 160, 329, 343

Index759 Plautus 219 Pliny the Elder [Gaius Plinius Secundus] 35 Plutarch  343, 349, 383 Poe, Edgar Allan  385, 428, 572 Poland  28, 120–121 Polo, Marco  324 Pombo, Álvaro  442 Pomian, Krzystof  391 Pompeius Trogus, Gnaeus  324 Pompey 314 Ponce, Bartolomé [Fr.]  152 Pondal, Eduardo  13, 15 Pons, Ponç  263 Pons, Salvador  553 Ponte, Pero da  285 Pontevedra  188, 197–198, 597 Pope, Randolph  27, 659 Porcel, Baltasar  489 Porsenna, Lars  307 Porto  92, 94, 211, 449, 455, 458, 550, 554, 556, 595, 602 Porto, César  232 Portugal  2, 9, 15–16, 55, 78, 87–100, 102–103, 129, 138, 148, 157–159, 161–163, 171–172, 190–193, 196–198, 201–204, 209, 211, 215, 217–221, 223, 226, 231–235, 237–240, 243, 245, 250, 254–256, 259, 264, 267, 282–292, 296–297, 305, 315, 351, 355, 400–401, 403, 424–432, 436, 444, 449, 451, 455, 458, 489, 503, 536–537, 543–545, 550–551, 554, 556–557, 559–560, 562–569, 574, 579, 586, 592–594, 601–602, 608, 626–627, 632–637, 640, 650–651, 657 Potter, Russell  522 Poulain, Martine  497 Pozuelo Yvancos, José María  283, 532 Prada, Marco  476 Prades 29 Prado, Miguelanxo  451, 571–572, 574–575, 578 Prat, El  519, 524–525 Prat de la Riba, Enric  289 Prats, Llorenç  20, 22 Pratt, Hugo  572, 576, 578 Praz, Mario  253 Preciado, Beatriz  598 Presles, Raoul de  321, 324 Prestes, António  220

Prieto, Antonio  382–383 Primo de Rivera, Miguel  290, 411 Priscillian 13–14 Prodi, Paolo  203 Proença, Raúl  286 Propertius, Sextus  343 Propp, Vladimir  643 Prosperi, Adriano  200, 203 Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph  240, 244, 253 Proust, Marcel  505, 634 Provence 76 Puello, Arianna  529 Puente, Luis de la  202, 204 Puerto de Santa María, El  466 Puerto Rico  197, 227 Puga Moruxa, Manuel  445, 623 Puigblanch, Antoni  288 Pujades, Jeroni  262–263 Pujadó, Miquel  509–511 Pujol, Josep  299, 319–323, 325 Pujol, Juan  79 Puleo, Alicia  591 Pulido Fernández, Ángel  79 Pulido Serrano, Juan Ignacio  78 Puy Rodríguez, Ana  586 Pynchon, Thomas  498 Q Quebec 523 Queirós, Francisco Teixeira de  231, 240 Queirós, José Maria Eça de  188, 231, 240–242, 244–245, 248–255, 566, 634, 650 Queizán, María Xosé  586 Quental, Antero de  240, 259, 283–284, 456 Querejeta, Elías  542 Quevedo, Francisco de  7, 36, 55–63, 127, 196, 198, 200, 220, 326, 441, 463 Quint, David  308 Quintilian [Marcus Fabius Quintilianus]  298, 342, 344 Quiñones, Juan de  32–42 Quondam, Amadeo  388 R Rabadán, Rosa  432 Rábade Villar, María do Cebreiro 303, 451, 608 Rabelais, François  483

Rachilde [Marguerite ValletteEymery] 385 Racine, Jean  222, 229 Radl, Rita  591 Rafanell, August  330, 336 Raia, Manuel Fernandes  144, 152 Raimon [Ramón Pelegero Sanchis] 508–509 Raley, Rita  385 Ramírez, Francisco O.  579 Ramírez, Roman  164 Ramis, Llucia  500 Ramón y Cajal, Santiago  402 Ramos Carrión, Miguel  466, 478 Ramos de Castro y Anselmo, Francisco 475 Ramos, Artur  546 Ramos, Juana  600 Ramos, Vicente  480 Ranger, Terence  284, 368 Raquel [Alfonso VIII’s lover]  79–80 Raymond [Archbishop]  351 Read, Piers Paul  493 Rebello, Luiz Francisco  237, 546 Rebelo, Gaspar Pires de  191 Redol, Alves  545 Redondo, Mónica  600 Reed, Lou  511 Régio, José  237 Rei Romeu, Manuel  290 Reig, Rafael  494 Reis, Carlos  240 Reis, Simão dos  543 Rendeiro, Margarida  426 Reno 445 Renonciat, Annie  277–278 Requesens, Isabel [Duchess of Soma] Resa, Juan de  328–330, 332–333, 336–337 Resende, Garcia de  158, 213 Resina, Joan Ramon  292, 440, 445, 621–622, 635, 653–654 Resnais, Alain  504 Reus 29–30 Revilla, Manuel de la  459 Rey Hazas, Antonio  184 Rey, Alfonso  57, 63 Reyes, Adolfo  79 Reyes, Pepe  562 Rhode Island  504 Ribeiro, Aquilino  191, 193, 565 Ribeiro, Bernardim  140, 145, 173

Index

760 Ribeiro, M. Félix  544 Ribeiro, Nelson  565 Ribera, La  416 Ribera i Rovira, Ignasi  288 Ribera Llopis, Juan Miguel  657 Ricardo, Rui  574 Ricci, Evelyne  467 Rich, Adrienne  66 Richepin, Jean  385 Ricketts, Peter T.  321 Rico, Francisco  324, 341, 447 Ricoeur, Paul  658 Riegl, Aloïs  386 Riera i Sans, Jaume  320–321 Riera, Carme  85, 212, 489 Rimbaud, Arthur  385, 547 Rina López, María Pilar  34 Rio de Janeiro  188, 190, 193 Riquer, Martín de  161, 320, 322, 326–327, 330, 334, 337 Risco, Vicente  15–17, 287, 291–292 Rius [Eduardo del Río]  571 Rivas Cherif, Cipriano  230, 236, 477 Rivas, Manuel  488, 627–628, 630 Rivera Garretas, María-Milagros 589 Rivers, Elias L.  171, 174, 441 Rivière, Margarita  103 Roberts, Cecil  428 Roca Mussons, María  146 Rocca, Angelo [Camers Camerinus, Fr.] 38 Rocha, Anabela  602 Rocha, Clara  256, 261, 266 Rocha, Natércia  92, 98 Rocha, Paulo  543, 546–548 Rocha-Trindade, Maria Beatriz  98 Rochelle, La  410 Rodero, Emma  564, 567 Rodgers, Eamonn  443 Rodoreda, Mercè  485 Rodrigues, Ana Salgueiro  636 Rodrigues, Graça Almeida  426 Rodrigues, Manuel Maria  544 Rodrigues, Maria do Carmo  98 Rodrigues, Maria Idalina Resina 202 Rodríguez Barral, Paulino  76 Rodríguez Castelao, Alfonso Daniel 16, 229, 260, 285, 287, 290, 627–630 Rodríguez de Montalvo, Garci  157, 352, 358–359, 361

Rodríguez del Padrón, Juan  322–323 Rodriguez Galdo, María José  591 Rodríguez Garrido, María [see Rodríguez, Mala] Rodríguez Márquez, Nacho  552 Rodríguez Pérez, Yolanda  59–60 Rodríguez Richart, José  113 Rodríguez Sánchez, Tomás  227 Rodriguez, Antonio J.  500 Rodríguez, Mala [María Rodríguez Garrido]  526–527, 529–530 Rodríguez, Pero [Count of Campomanes] 370 Rogel, José  473–474 Roggenbuck, Stev  503 Roig, Montserrat  29 Roís de Corella, Joan  322 Rojas, Fernando de  77–78, 83, 301, 352, 356–358 Roman Empire  58, 311, 315–316, 612 Román, Antonio  538–539 Romaní, Baltasar de  326–329, 332, 336 Rome  52, 196–197, 296, 307–310, 317, 356, 474 Romera Castillo, José  259, 448 Romero Bachiller, Carmen  600 Romero de Torres, Julio  35 Romero López, Dolores  448 Romero Tobar, Leonardo  454, 456, 650 Romero, Eugenia R.  622–624 Romo Feito, Fernando  607 Ronda 110 Ronsard, Pierre de  171 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano  539 Roquette, José Ignacio  243 Rosa, Alexandra Assis  426 Rosa, Isaac  116–117 Rosa, Ricard de la  601 Rosaldo, Renato  85 Rosas, Fernando  426 Rose, Tricia  522 Rosen, Tova  131, 134–135, 137 Ross, Herbert  533 Rossich, Albert  327 Rostand, Edmond  477–478 Rostow, Walt W.  646 Rotaetxe, Karmele  606 Roth, Norman  351–352 Round, Nicholas G.  321–322, 352, 441

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques  373 Rouvillois, Frédéric  482–483 Rovira, Francesc  274 Rowling, J.[oanne] K.[athleen]  447 Roy, Claude  390 Rozas, Juan Manuel  176 Rozenberg, Danielle  84 Rozzo, Ugo  200 Ruano, Benito  75 Rubens, Peter Paul  260 Rubí 519 Rubia Barcia, Xosé  621 Rubió i Ors, Joaquim  24 Rueda Laffond, José Carlos  550 Rueda, Lope de  34 Ruiz Albéniz, Víctor [Chispero] 468–469, 479 Ruiz Carnicer, Miguel Ángel  447 Ruiz Collantes, Xavier  114 Ruiz Picasso, Pablo  260 Ruiz Ramón, Francisco  219, 223 Ruiz Román, Paloma  601 Ruiz Sánchez, Ana  113 Ruiz Torres, Pedro  373 Ruiz Zafón, Carlos  447, 490, 495 Ruiz, Juan [Archpriest of Hita]  509 Ruiz, Teófilo F.  75–76 Rusiñol, Santiago  470 Russell, Peter E.  320 Russia 476 Ryle, Gilbert  620 S Sá de Miranda, Francisco  172–173, 219–220 Saavedra, Ángel de [Duke of Rivas] 34, 227 Sabionetta 360 Sable, Martin H.  82 Sabuco, Assumpta  601 Sá-Carneiro, Francisco de  288, 543 Sacido, Jorge  6 Sáenz de Heredia, José Luis  538 Sáez, Fernando  601 Sáez, Javier  598, 600 Safurdão 197 Sagarra, Josep Maria de  249 Sagastizabal, Joxean  484, 487, 608 Sahagún, Aurelio  571 Said, Edward  21, 27, 401 Saint Petersburg  241–242 Saint-Jean-de-Luz 410 Saint-Just, Antoine de  242

Index761 Saint-Quentin  311, 314 Sainz de Robles, Federico Carlos 101–104 Saizarbitoria, Ramon  413 Salamanca  97, 197, 316, 356, 468, 584, 589, 597 Salamanca y Mayol, José [Marquis] 471 Salas Barbadillo, Alonso Jerónimo de 203 Salaün, Serge  446–447, 450, 467 Salazar Garaigorta, Julián de  259 Salazar, António de Oliveira  88, 91, 95, 98, 196, 232, 234–235, 237–238, 256, 305–306, 424–426, 430–431, 437, 536, 545, 547, 550–551, 554– 555, 565, 592 Saldanha, Ana  94, 97–98 Sallust [Gaius Sallustius Crispus] 324, 346 Salmerón, Rafael  281 Salvador, Lola  567 Salvat, Ricardo  238 Sampaio, Albino Forjaz de  237 Sampaio, Sofia  444 San Diego  579 San Juan, Pilar  129, 283 San Luís Romero, Xesús  228 San Pedro, Diego de  325 San Sebastián [see Donostia] Sanches, Manuela Ribeiro  660 Sánchez Albornoz, Claudio  83 Sánchez Cervelló, Josep  289 Sánchez Cordobés, Joaquín  552 Sánchez de la Camara, Diego  161 Sánchez de las Brozas, Francisco [El Brocense]  326 Sánchez Mazas, Rafael  490 Sánchez Ortega, María Elena  40 Sánchez Piñol, Albert  29, 487, 489, 496 Sánchez Reboredo, José  435 Sánchez Robayna, Andrés  262 Sánchez, Antonio  443 Sánchez, Vicente  546 Sánchez, Yvette  389, 391 Sánchez-Mesa, Domingo  448 Sanchís Sinisterra, José  564 Sancho, Rodolfo  561 Sanfeliú, Luz  590, 599 Sangrador García, José Luis  100 Sannazaro, Jacopo  138, 142, 149–151, 153

Santa Fe, Jerónimo de [Joshua Halorqui] 76 Santana, Mario  68 Santander  100, 566 Santareno, Bernardo  237, 546 Santiago de Compostela  4, 94, 449, 509, 584, 591, 624, 635 Santiáñez-Tió, Nil  287 Santo Domingo  374 Santos, Ana Cristina  593, 595, 602, 634 Santos, Fernando Piteira  545 Santos, José Rodrigues dos  489 Santos, Lidia  569 Santos, Zulmira  128, 203, 205 Santoyo, Julio-César  320 Sanz Cabrerizo, Amelia  448 Sanz García, José María  103 Sanzol, Alfredo  564 Sapega, Ellen  1, 4, 427, 634, 650 Saplana, Pere  321–322 Saraiva, António José  191 Saramago, José  214, 266, 489, 632 Sarasola, Ibon  412 Sardinha, António  286 Sardou, Victorien  477 Sare 410 Sarmati, Elisabetta  161 Sarmiento, Martín [Fr., Pedro Xosé García Balboa]  387, 627–630 Sarrionandia, Joseba  413, 418–419 Sassen, Saskia  610 Sastre, Alfonso  234 Satterfield, Shane  279 Saunier, Pierre-Yves  647 Sauquillo, Antonio  566 Sautier Casaseca, Guillermo  566 Savater, Fernando  260, 442 Scarpa, Tiziano  511 Schachter, Allison  354 Schaefer, Jean-Marie  534 Scharm, Heike  128, 608 Scheindlin, Raymond P.  131–132, 136, 351 Schirmann, Jefim  131–136 Schlegel, Friedrich  614, 616 Schmidt, Siegfried  394–398 Schneeberger, Albert  397 Schopenhauer, Arthur  242, 244 Schriewer, Jünger  647 Schryer, Catherine F.  206 Schumpeter, Joseph A.  616 Schwartz, Lía  55, 58–59, 61, 63

Schwartz, Oscar  503 Schwartz, Stephanie Tara  354 Schweitzer, Frederick M.  77 Schyfter, Sara E.  80 Scolari, Carlos A.  449 Scotland  20, 91, 208, 244, 292 Scott, Emily-Elizabeth  503 Scott, James  368 Scott, Walter [Sir]  21, 28, 206, 208, 243–244, 366 Scribe, Eugène  476–477, 480 Sebastian I of Portugal  102, 213, 215, 225, 285–286 Sefarad  8, 74–75, 78, 86 Segarra, Marta  589 Segovia  36, 261 Segura Graíño, Cristina  581, 587, 591 Selim I [Ottoman Sultan]  313 Sellars, Peter  64 Sellars, Wilfrid  504 Selvagem, Carlos [Carlos Tavares de Andrade Afonso dos Santos] 233 Sena, Jorge de  173 Senabre, Ricardo  151 Sendak, Maurice  275 Sender, Ramón J.  34, 541 Seneca, Lucius Annaeus  52, 321– 325, 344, 349, 383 Senegal 123 Seoane, Luís  627–628, 630 Sepúlveda 36 Sequeira, Gustavo de Matos  237 Seraphi, Pedro  337 Serés, Guillermo  326 Sérgio, António  286 Serra Muñoz, Marta  272 Serra, Adolfo  271 Serrano Simeón, José  474 Serrano, Carlos  446 Serrão, Joel  286 Serrat, Joan Manuel  509 Seruya, Teresa  425–426, 428–429, 431–432 Servius [Maurus Servius Honoratus] 308, 310–311 Severin, Dorothy Sherman  358 Sevilla, Florencio  184, 584 Seville  2, 85, 94, 102, 157, 197, 227, 327, 366–367, 463, 524, 526, 584– 585, 587–588, 597, 601 Shakespeare, William  64, 355–356, 360, 476, 564, 615, 642–643 Shapiro, Marianne  132

Index

762 Shaw, George Bernard  476 Shelton, Gilbert  572 Sicily  55, 76 Sicroff, Albert A.  82–83 Sieburth, Stephanie A.  443, 446 Sierra, Germán  448, 450, 498, 500, 661 Sierra, Javier  489, 491 Silva y de Toledo, Juan de  161 Silva, Agostinho da  185 Silva, António Cavaco  559 Silva, Antonio de  220 Silva, Feliciano de  140 Silva, José Alberto Morais da  551, 557 Silva, Juan de  166 Silva, Lorenzo  118, 120 Silva, Luís Rebelo da  211 Silva, Vítor Manuel de Aguiar e  178 Silverman, Joseph  358 Simmel, Georg  103 Simó, Isabel-Clara  489 Simões, João Gaspar  192, 453 Simón Díaz, José  103–105 Simonis, Angie  600 Singerman, Robert  354 Singleton, Charles  132 Sinopoli, Franca  654–655 Sinués de Marco, María del Pilar 456 Skocpol, Theda  646 Sloterdijk, Peter  276, 610 Sluga, Glenda  648 Smith, Angel  401 Smith, Paul  80–82 Smith, Paul Julian  441–442 Soares, Bernardo [see Pessoa, Fernando] Soares, David  574 Soares, Mário  559 Sobrer, Josep Miquel  28 Socrates 215 Soengas, Xosé  567 Soja, Edward  640 Solá, Miriam  601 Soldevila, Ferran  29 Soldevila, Llorenç  509 Soler, Ramón Lopez  208 Solervicens, Josep  327–328, 331 Solís, Antonio  34 Sollors, Werner  631 Solnado, Raul  555 Solo, Juan [Juan Jiménez Domene] 519

Solsona, Ramon  489 Solsten, Eric  425 Somerset Maugham, William  428 Sontag, Susan  490 Sophonias 52 Sòria, Enric  263 Soriano Gil, Manuel Ángel  601 Soriano, Marc  270 Soroa, Marcelino  230 Soropita, Fernão Rodrigues Lobo 172 Sorozábal, Pablo  474 Soule 416 Sousa, António Caetano de  159 Sousa, Ernesto de  546 Sousa, José Dias de  543 Sousa, Manuel de Faria e  172, 176–178, 181 South Africa  98, 116 South America  61, 87, 430 Southern Europe  550, 614–615 Spadaccini, Nicholas  446, 654 Spain  6–9, 12, 16–17, 19–21, 23–25, 27, 29–31, 33–36, 38–39, 41, 45, 52, 55–56, 58–62, 64, 74–85, 87, 91, 93–95, 97, 100, 102–103, 105, 112–117, 119, 121–124, 127, 129, 138, 157–159, 161–162, 166, 171–172, 184–186, 189, 193, 195–197, 201, 204, 208, 217–218, 221, 223, 226–227, 230, 234–237, 240, 245, 255–257, 261, 266, 268, 270, 274, 277, 282–284, 286–292, 296–297, 299, 302, 305, 311–314, 317, 342, 351, 354–356, 358, 360, 362–366, 369–375, 377–379, 400–405, 407, 409–410, 424–433, 439, 441, 443–444, 446–447, 449–451, 453, 455, 457, 464, 466, 468–469, 472– 475, 478–480, 482, 500, 518–519, 523, 528, 537, 539–540, 542, 547, 549–553, 555–561, 563–567, 570, 573–574, 578–582, 592, 595–601, 607–608, 614, 616, 626, 629, 633, 635, 639–640, 651, 655, 657 Spanish America  429–430, 441 Spencer, Herbert  240 Spiegelman, Art  573, 575 Spielberg, Steven  504 Spillane, Mickey [Frank Morrison Spillane] 429 Spinola, António de  557 Spinoza, Baruch  612

Spitzer, Leo  174, 614 Staël, Germaine de  620 Stam, Robert Burgoyne  533 Stapell, Hamilton M.  441 Stegmann, André  650 Steinbeck, John  573 Steiner, George  490, 643 Steinhoff, Hans  539 Steinmetz, Willibald  648 Stephens, John  88 Stevenson, Robert Louis  564 Sting [Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner] 511 Stoichita, Victor I.  391 Stow, Kenneth R.  356 Strauss-Khan, Dominique  505 Street, John  522–523 Strelka, Joseph P.  397 Strindberg, August  476 Suárez Briones, Beatriz  447, 451, 590, 597, 601, 608 Suárez de Figueroa, Cristóbal  349 Suárez, Adolfo  551, 555 Subirá, José  368 Subirats, Eduardo  158, 364 Sub-Saharan Africa  114, 353 Sudermann, Hermann  476 Suebia 14 Suevos, Jesús  552 Sugrañés, Manuel  474 Suleiman I [Ottoman Sultan]  317 Sweden  61, 432, 639 Switzerland  113, 292 Synesius of Cyrene  343 Szurmuk, Mónica  439, 441 T Tabucchi, Antonio  577 Tacitus, Publius Cornelius  349 Tailhade, Laurent  385 Taine, Hippolyte  240 Talens, Jenaro  507 Tamayo y Baus, Manuel  476 Tamen, Pedro  546 Tanner, Marie  317 Tanner, Tony  241, 245 Tarradellas, Josep  555 Tárrago y Mateos, Torcuato  460 Tarragona 589 Tarrío Varela, Anxo  609 Tartas, Jean de  204 Tasso, Lluís  454 Tavares, Francisco de Sousa  202

Index763 Tavares, Manuela  594 Teaiwa, Katerina Martina  354 Teixeira, Judith  638 Teixidor, Emili  489, 495 Tejada, Jerónimo de  140 Teles de Meneses, Leonor [Queen of Portugal] 213 Tellado, Corín  489 Telles, António da Cunha  546 Tello, León  360 Tenniel, John  280 Teodosio II [Duke of Braganza] 159 Terence [Publius Terentius Afer] 219, 284, 340–341, 343, 346 Teresa of Ávila [St., Teresa Sánchez de Cepeda y Ahumada]  83, 200–202 Terry, Arthur  406 Teruel 124 Teves, Vasco Hogan  550 Thackeray, William Makepeace 428 Theodosius I [Roman Emperor] 285, 611 Theognis of Megara  331, 343 Thiesse, Anne-Marie  11 Thomas Aquinas  331 Thomas, Dylan  572, 578 Thomaz, Américo  554 Thompson, Judd  623 Thous, Maximiliano  474 Tibullus, Albius  343 Tilby, A. Wyatt  482 Tilly, Charles  646 Tilly, Louise  646 Tilly, Richard  646 Tintorer, Emilio  477 Tisselli, Eugenio  448 Tobi, Yosef  131, 133 Tobias, Sheila  579 Toboso, El  111 Todor, Eva  554 Todorov, Tzvetan  383 Toledo  77, 102, 105, 131–132, 156– 158, 163, 166 Toledo Portugal y Fernández de Córdoba, María Bernarda [Duchess of Alba]  366 Tolkien, J.[ohn] R.[onald] R.[euel] 420 Tölölyan, Khachig  353–354 Tolstoy, Leo  241–242, 244, 253, 262, 643 Tomás de S. Domingos [Fr.]  152

Toner, Anki  523 Torga, Miguel [Adolfo Correia da Rocha]  261–262, 266, 554 Torgal, Luís Rei  429, 453, 455 Torné, Gonzalo  500 Toro Mérida, Julián  455 Toro, Suso de  488 Torralba Soriano, Federico  236 Torras i Bages, Josep  23 Torras, Meri  447, 589 Torre, Alfonso de la  325 Torre, Gorka  420–421 Torremolinos 84 Torrent, Ferran  489 Torrente Ballester, Gonzalo  555 Torres Feijó, Elias J.  6, 11, 14, 659 Torres Ramírez, Isabel de  585 Torres Villarroel, Diego de  364, 373 Torres, Diana  599 Torres, Jordi  22–24 Torres, Rui  449 Torró, Jaume  322 Torroella, Pere  322 Torrolba Bernaldo de Quirós, Felipe 75 Tortosa Garrigós, Virgilio  448–449 Tötösy de Zepetnek, Steven  440, 660 Toulouse [or Tolosa]  285, 373–374 Toury, Gideon  424, 427–428 Toutain, Joseph  572 Trapiello, Andrés  259 Trenker, Luis  539 Trent  200–201, 284 Trevet, Nicholas  321, 324 Triadú, Joan  395, 399 Tribaldo de Toledo, Luis  332 Trigg, Dylan  506 Trigo, Felipe  250, 254, 541 Trigo, Ramón  272 Troyes, Chrétien de  132, 156 Trujillo 41 Trujillo, Gracia  599–601 Trullemans, Ulla  191 Tsarfati, Joseph  355–357, 362 Tubert, Silvia  591 Tubino, Francisco María  161 Tui 15 Tuñón de Lara, Manuel  447 Turró, Jaume  327, 333 Turtós, Jordi  509 Twain, Mark [Samuel Langhorne Clemens] 428

Txillardegi [see Álvarez Enparantza, José Luis] Tymoczko, Maria  610 U Ucelay da Cal, Enric  289 Uchmany, Eva Alexandra  75 Ucicky, Gustav  539 Ugalde, Felipe  278 Ugarte, Michael  104, 607, 639–640 Ulanowicz, Robert  505 Ulm 76 Umbral, Francisco  442, 494 Unamuno, Miguel de  31, 210–211, 251, 259, 283, 290–292, 372, 405, 407, 468, 476, 607–608, 614, 616, 651 Ungría, Alfonso  542 United Kingdom  267, 562, 625 United States [of America]  262, 282, 287, 292, 397, 428, 432–433, 440–441, 446, 521, 523–524, 554, 569, 621, 623, 625, 647 Urda, Manuel  572 Uriarte, Manuel de  259 Uribe, Kirmen  488 Urkiaga Basaraz, Estepan [Lauaxeta] 412, 414, 418 Urko, Elena  601 Urquijo, Julio de  373 Urquizu, Patricio  659, 661 Urraca of Castile and Leon  213–214 Urrea, Pedro de  322 Urreta, Luis de  51–53 Urruspil, Béatrice  305, 420, 422 Uruguay 626 Usque, Samuel  153 Utrecht  186, 410 V Vadet, Jean-Claude  132 Vajda, György  650 Val, Jaime del  600 Valcárcel, Amelia  591 Valcuende del Río, José María  601 Valdés, Mario J.  2 Valdivielso, José de  159 Valencia  51, 84, 105, 147–148, 156, 290, 311, 321, 327, 333, 373, 455, 467, 524, 581–582, 584, 589, 591, 597, 635 Valencian Country  556 Valentí, Ferran  319–320

Index

764 Valenzuela, Laura  552 Valera, Juan  240, 460 Valerius Maximus  319, 321–323 Valéry, Paul  386, 389 Valladares, Marcial  458 Valladolid  102, 157, 159, 326, 336, 383, 583, 589, 591 Valle, Teresa del  592 Valle-Inclán, Ramón del [Ramón J. S. Valle Peña]  34, 235, 237, 405, 466, 476, 481, 541, 627–628, 630 Vallmanya, Bernardí  325 Vallverdú, Francesc  282 Valverde, Fernando de  203 Van den Braembussche, Antoon A. 649 Van Dine, S. S. [Willard Huntington Wright] 575 Van Sant, Gus  533 Vanoosthuyse, Michel  208 Vaquinhas, Irene Maria  455–457 Varela Suanzes-Carpegna, Álvaro 382 Vargas Díaz-Toledo, Aurelio  159–161, 170 Vargas Llosa, Mario  65–66 Vargas, Ana  592 Vargues, Isabel Nobre  453 Vasconcelos, Ana Isabel Teixeira de 224 Vasconcelos, António Augusto Teixeira de  211, 453 Vasconcelos, Carolina Michaëlis de 171–172 Vasconcelos, Jorge Ferreira de  161, 168–169, 173 Vatican 539 Vaz de Soto, José María  542 Vázquez Cuesta, Pilar  174 Vázquez Figueroa, Alberto  489 Vázquez Montalbán, Manuel  479, 490, 542 Vázquez Pintor, Xosé  197 Vázquez, Eduardo  567 Vázquez, Manuel  572 Vega Cernuda, Miguel Ángel  428 Vega, Félix Lope de  31, 56, 77–79, 146, 152–153, 177, 200, 218–219, 223, 236, 441 Vega, Garcilaso de la  140–141, 143, 145, 151–153, 171–173, 177, 326, 335, 441 Vega, María José  3, 448

Vega, Ventura de la [Buenaventura José María de la Vega y Cárdenas] 476–477 Vegetius [Flavius Vegetius Renatus] 324 Veiga, Tomé Pinheiro de  159 Velasco y Girón, Ana de  159 Velasco, Alfonso de  332 Vélez de Guevara, Luis  56 Vélez de la Gomera  312 Vélez-Pelligrini, Laurentino  601 Vella, Horatio Caesar Roger  308 Venegas, Alejo  204 Venezuela  302–303, 373–379, 626 Venice  62, 97, 196–197, 215, 285, 362 Ventura, Francisco  237 Ventura, Joaquim  260 Venuti, Lawrence  354–356, 360, 435 Vera Tassis y Villarroel, Juan de  45, 51 Veracruz 375 Verdaguer, Jacint  24, 28 Verea y Aguiar, José  12 Verlaine, Paul  385 Vermeer, Johannes  278 Vernet, Francesc  396 Verneuil, Henri [Achod Malakian] 237 Verney, Luis António  221 Verona 589 Versailles  30, 614 Vertov, Dziga [Denis Arkadyevich Kaufman] 539 Veyán, Jackson  471 Vic 118 Vicens Vives, Jaume  262 Vicente, Gil  158, 218–220, 224, 554 Vicetto, Benito  16 Victorino, Virgínia  237 Vidal, César  85 Vidal-Folch, Ignacio  577 Vidarte, Paco  598 Vieira, Alice  89–91, 93–94, 99 Vieira, António  15, 155 Vieira, José Augusto  240, 250, 254 Vieira, Luandino  637 Vieites, Azucena  599 Vienna  64, 76 Vigil, Luis  571 Vigo  14, 524, 583–584, 586, 590, 595, 597 Vila Matas, Enrique  489 Vila, Fefa  597, 599–600

Vilà, Lara  299, 313 Viladomat, Domingo  539 Vilariño Picos, María Teresa  449 Vilarós, Teresa M.  447 Vilas, Manuel  448 Vila-Sanjuán, Sergio  482, 491 Vilches de Frutos, María Francisca 468 Villagrasa, Carles  601 Villalón, Cristóbal de  342, 346 Villalonga, Llorenç  485, 541 Villanueva, Darío  447, 449 Villanueva, Tomás  202 Villar Ponte, Antón  14, 18 Villar Saenz, Amparo  601 Villar, Domingo  488 Villares, Ramón  12 Villaronga, Jordi  397 Villarquemado 124 Villena, Enrique de  55, 319–321 Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, PhillippeAugust 385 Viñas, David  447, 450, 608, 661 Viñuales, Olga  595, 597 Virgil [Publius Vergilius Maro]  52, 139, 142, 162, 219, 293, 307–317, 336, 341, 343, 345 Viterbo, Sousa  158 Vitoria [see Gasteiz] Vives, Luis  83, 203, 347–348 Vollendorf, Lisa  442 Volpini, Federico  564, 569 Voltaire [François-Marie Arouet] 222, 373, 428 Von Sass, Hartmut  649 Vossler, Karl  614 Vulcanio, Buenaventura  38 W Wace, Robert  156 Wacks, David  301 Wagner, Richard  278, 474, 479 Wales 292 Waleys, Thomas  321, 324 Waltari, Mika  494 Warburg, Aby  294 Warhol, Andy  533 Warner, Michael  503 Warsaw 120–121 Washabaugh, William  368–369, 371 Weinreich, Ulrich  397 Weisgerber, Jean  650 Weiss, Andrea L.  131

Index765 Weissberg, Jean-Louis  277 Weisstein, Ulrich  650 Wellek, René  658 Welles, Orson  565 Werner, Michael  647 West Africa  51 West Indies  41, 52, 159 Western Europe  59, 76, 82, 351 Whinnom, Keith  356 Whitaker, Arthur P.  374 White, Hayden  641, 659 Wicki, Ioseph  159 Wilde, Oscar  428, 476 Wilder, Billy  533 William of Aragon  321 Williams, Raymond  492, 521, 523 Wilmer, Stephen E.  217 Wittgenstein, Ludwig  619 Wittig, Monique  592, 595, 598, 603 Wittlin, Curt J.  321, 325 Włocławek 121 Wolf, Werner  449 Woolard, Kathryn  24 Woolf, Virginia  262

Wordsworth, Dorothy  636 Worthen, William B.  217 Wright, Roger  607 X X, Malcolm [Malcolm Little]  522 Xabregas 158 Xavier [del Valle]  508 Xavier, Francis [St.]  155 Y Yahuda, Abraham Shalom  79 Yates, Frances A.  317 Ynduráin, Domingo  446 Yolande of Bar [Queen Consort of Aragon]  324 Younghan, Rachel  503 Yourcenar, Marguerite  494 Yuste 311 Yxart, Josep  462, 466, 471 Z Zamora 466 Zamora, Juan Alfonso de  323

Zapata, Luis  311–312 Zapatero, José Luis Rodríguez  282 Zaragoza  157, 333, 336, 348, 360, 524–525, 584, 588, 599, 601 Zarri, Gabriella  201, 203 Zavala, Iris M.  447, 586 Zeig, Sande  595, 603 Zenith, Richard  265 Zerolo, Pedro  597 Ziga, Itziar  601, 608 Ziino, Francesca  321 Zinato, Andrea  321 Zola, Émile  231, 240, 250–251, 282, 428, 460 Zorrilla, José  227 Zovko, Maja  114 Zuberoa 413 Zuckerman, Albert  496 Zulueta, Iván  553 Zúñiga, Juan Eduardo  212 Zurian Hernández, Francisco A. 601 Zurita, Marciano  468

Volume 2 of A Comparative History of Literatures in the Iberian Peninsula brings to an end this collective work that aims at surveying the network of interliterary relations in the Iberian Peninsula. No attempt at such a comparative history of literatures in the Iberian Peninsula has been made until now. In this volume, the focus is placed on images (Section 1), genres (Section 2), forms of mediation (Section 3), and cultural studies and literary repertoires (Section 4). To these four sections an epilogue is added, in which specialists in literatures in the Iberian Peninsula, as well as in the (sub)disciplines of comparative history and comparative literary history, search for links between Volumes 1 and 2 from the point of view of general contributions to the field of Iberian comparative studies, and assess the entire project that now reaches completion with contributions from almost one hundred scholars.

ISBN 978 90 272 3465 0

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam/Philadelphia