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416 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1962
The scaffold had become the hub of an exchange, of a forum, of a perpetual auction sale. The executions no longer even interrupted the haggling, importuning and arguing. The guillotine had begun to form part of normal everyday life. Amongst the parsley and the marjoram, miniature guillotines were sold as ornaments, and many people took them home. Children exerted their ingenuity to construct little machines for decapitating cats.
And since the whole island must learn its lesson, the guillotine was removed from the Place de la Victoire, and began to travel, to go on journeys and excursions.
There were silent houses, hidden in the woods, where columns from some Greek temple rose up to meet pediments obliterated by ivy…
Baudelaire had supper at the table next to ours. He was without a cravat, his shirt open at the neck and his head shaved, just as if he were to be guillotined. A single affectation: his little hands washed and cared for, the nails kept scrupulously clean. The face of a maniac, a voice that cuts like a knife, and a precise elocution that tries to copy Saint-Just and succeeds.
'Transported to the symbiotic universe, sunken to the neck in wells whose waters were endlessly frothed by collapsing ribbons of waves broken, lacerated, shattered by the bite of the living rock of dog’s tooth calcite, Esteban marvelled at how language on these islands had resorted to agglutination, verbal amalgam, metaphor to translate the formal ambiguity of matter that partook of several essences.'
‘And he saw himself, on splendid mornings in the future, seated there among samples of rice and garbanzos, noting down, appraising, arguing with a late payer or some provincial retailer, while the sun shimmered outside on the waters of the bay and a clipper passed on its way to New York or Cape Horn. He knew that would never interest him enough to devote the best years of his life to it. Now that he’d been saved from Hell, he could not place himself—feel like himself—in this reality, in this normalcy regained.’
“Faith in something that changes its face by the day will bring you great and terrible disappointments,” Esteban said. “You know what you hate. That is all. And knowing it, you place your trust, your hope, in anything that is not it.”
“We can all think what we like, and we’ll go back to what we were before,” she said as she left. Esteban, alone now, realised that was impossible. Some epochs are made for decimating the flock, confounding languages, dispersing the tribes.”
[some highlights from the ‘Translator’s Notes’ by Adrian Nathan West]
“Still, literalism has its limits. In his exuberance, Carpentier gets the occasional thing wrong: he speaks early on of “black retinas'' when he must mean pupils; he has Cazotte’s camel from Le diable amoreaux vomit a greyhound rather than a spaniel, as in the original. Such trivialities I have silently corrected. The question of style is thornier; the author’s peculiarities demand respect, but different languages have different degrees of tolerance for prolixity and ambiguity, and there are bits of bombast I have overruled when I did not think English would well bear them. At one point, Carpentier writes, “horrified at the impossibility of escaping the trial of confronting a storm”; most English speakers will struggle to see how this is superior to the simpler “horrified of the storm.” A tic of writers in Spanish generally is their preference not to say someone did something when they might instead say he began to do it, managed to do it, was able to do it; another is to say something occurred suddenly when it cannot have occurred otherwise (we need not be told that a lightning strike or the explosion of a shell is sudden). In these minor matters, I’ve relied on my judgement. While not so vain as to suppose I’ve done everything right, I am confident this new translation of Explosion in a Cathedral is substantially more correct than its predecessor.’
‘Just browsing for errors in the Sturrock translation, I’ve found enough to presume there are many more, not all of them inconsequential. A few examples: the Spanish acabar por, to wind up doing something, is routinely translated as to finish; the War of Palmares, which occurred in the Brazilian Maroon settlement of Quilombo dos Palmares, is translated as the “War of the Palm Trees”; the spiders Sturrock has descend from the ceiling of the magic castle of Gottorp are almost certainly chandeliers; though the sound of drums was common in nineteenth-century skirmishes, in many cases, Carpentier must mean “artillery” when he uses the word batería; and so on and so forth.’
“In his account of the northward migrations of the Carib people, he underscores the brutality of life in the pre-Columbian Americas, not to excuse the ravages of the conquistadors, but to hint at an inclination to cruelty and plunder universal in the human heart. His portrayal of the corruption of the revolutionary idealists, who abhorred slavery and embraced self-determination only so long as it was politically expedient, is a sour reminder of how easily self-interest eclipses virtue.’
[some highlights from the ‘Foreword’ written by Alejandro Zambra]
‘The foreignness of his own language was clear to Carpentier from the start, as the son of a French father and a Russian mother. Throughout his life, he affirmed the official story that he had been born in Havana, but a few years after Carpentier’s death, Guillermo Cabrera Infante leaked the juicy tidbit that he had actually been born in Lausanne, Switzerland (a bit of gossip that was never disproven, perhaps because it was supported by a birth certificate). The hypotheses about this lie—or, to put it more kindly, this slight displacement of the truth—are numerous, of course.’
‘There is no disputing that Carpentier was born on November 26, 1904, which is not relevant in and of itself—But I mention it because that is also the birthday of Esteban, one of the protagonists of Explosion in a Cathedral, who in fact becomes a translator—significant, since the book is often understood as a novel about the “translation” of the ideals of the French Revolution to the Caribbean.’
‘To read Carpentier entailed, first of all, listening to him, and then translating him. First, listening to him the way we listen to a song in a language very like our own but that we don’t understand entirely, and enjoying the echoes and contrasts. And then translating him; translating before we knew how to translate, or even that we were translating. Translating him in our own language. For someone who grew up with the Spanish of Chile, reading Carpentier was, of course, to travel to the island of Cuba, but above all it was to travel to the island of Carpentier.’
‘Explosion in a Cathedral' is a novel that, just like Italo Calvino said about classics, has never finished saying what it has to say. Especially to us, who in a way inhabit the future that it foresees or prefigures. Read today, some sixty years since its original publication, at the end of a pandemic, amid wars and totalitarian governments and a radical climate crisis, a novel like Explosion in a Cathedral continues to accompany us, to question us, to challenge and move us, and ultimately to help us in the arduous and terrible exercise of reading the world.’
‘Perhaps the somewhat irrational wish that Spanish were his mother tongue led Carpentier to build his astonishing version of that language, which takes on, even for Spanish speakers, a music that is old and new at the same time, one that allows past, present, and future to coexist. Literature, at the end of the day, is a complex form of consciousness, which allows us to imagine what we would be like if we were bilingual, or multilingual. And of course that includes imagining what we would be like had we learned the languages that were wiped out in our own lands and in the territories of neighbouring countries, the languages that were savaged and erased to create the illusion of monolingualism. Perhaps if we respond to the challenges raised by this novel, if we undertake the countless discussions it permits and induces, it will help us become more humble, less dumb, less deaf.’
‘Ils ne mouraient pas tous, mais tous étaient frappés, she recited to herself, remembering how Victor Hugues had read her La Fontaine at her home in Havana to improve her French pronunciation.’
‘Certain things we can never learn the full truth of,” thought Carlos as he reread the phrases underlined in the red velvet book, which could be interpreted in so many different ways. An Arab would say I was wasting my time, like a person searching for the tracks of a bird in the air or of a fish in water.’
‘—in waters of a blue so deep they seemed made of molten, though hibernal and vitreous, matter, shaken by distant throbbing. Not a creature appeared in that entire sea that gathered over buried mountains and abysses like the First Sea of Creation, before murex and argonaut. Only the Caribbean, despite the swarming creatures within it, ever had that look of an abandoned ocean. As though called to mysterious duties, the fishes fled the surface, medusas sank, the gulfweed disappeared, and what remained before the eye was conveyed in infinite values: the eternally postponed boundary of the horizon; space, and beyond space, stars present in a sky the mere mention of which evoked the entire crushing majesty that word had once held for those who first uttered it—the earliest of all words, perhaps, save those that had only begun to describe pain, fear, or hunger.’
‘Words took on a new weight. What had happened—what hadn’t happened—would adopt enormous dimensions.’
Esteban stopped, deeply shaken, before the Explosion in a Cathedral by an anonymous Neapolitan master. It seemed to prefigure so many events he had witnessed, and he felt staggered by the endless interpretations this prophetic canvas invited—anti-plastic, estranged from all known pictorial subjects, brought into their home by an obscure coincidence. If the cathedral was, according to the doctrines he had learned long ago, the representation—ark and tabernacle—of his own being, an explosion had occurred within it, however deferred and gradual, shattering altars, symbols, and objects of veneration. If the cathedral was the Age, then a formidable explosion had collapsed its supporting walls, burying beneath an avalanche of rubble the very men who may have built the infernal machine.What makes the book a historical novel that one of the three main characters actually existed in real life: Victor Hugues was an appointee by Maximilien Robespierre to run the French Caribbean colony of Guadeloupe and later, after Robespierre's downfall, French Guiana on the South American mainland.
Y así transcurría el tiempo, en aquellos días finales de un Siglo de las Luces que parecía haber durado más de trescientos años, por las tantas y tantas cosas que en él habían acontecido. "Vida maravillosa -decía Sofía-. Pero detrás de estos árboles hay algo inadmisible". Y señalaba hacia la fila de altos cipreses, alzados como obeliscos verdinegros sobre la vegetación circundante, que ocultaba otro mundo: el de los barracones de esclavos que a veces hacían sonar sus tambores como un granizo remoto.


