Certificate of Absence

by Sylvia Molloy, Daniel Balderston (Translator)

Originally published in 1981 as En breve cárcel, Certificate of Absence is the first novel of the Argentinian scholar-critic Sylvia Molloy. Innovative in its treatment of women's relationships and in its assertion of woman's right to author her own text, the novel has won wide approval in Latin America and the United States.

The novel centers around a woman writing in a small room. As she writes, remembering a past relationship and anticipating a future one, the room becomes a repository for nostalgia, violence, and desire, a space in which writing and remembering become life-sustaining ceremonies. The narrator reflects on the power of love to both shelter and destroy. She meditates on the act of writing, specifically on writing as a woman, in a voice that goes against the grain of established, canonical voices.

Latin American male writers are prone to self-portrayal in their texts. Certifcate of Absence is one of the few novels by Latin American women that successfully use this technique to open new windows on women's experiences.

Genres: Fiction

131 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1981

About the author

Sylvia Molloy is an Argentine writer and critic who has taught at Princeton, Yale and NYU, from where she retired in 2010. At NYU she held the Albert Schweitzer Chair in the Humanities. She is the author of two novels: En común olvido (2002). She has also written two short prose pieces, Varia imaginación (2003) and Desarticulaciones (2010). Her critical work includes La Diffusion de la littérature hispano-américaine en France au XXe siècle (1972), Las letras de Borges (1979), At Face Value: Autobiographical Writing in Spanish America (1991), Poses de fin de siglo. Desbordes del género en la modernidad (2013), and edited volumes such as Hispanisms and Homosexualities (1998) and Poéticas de la distancia. Adentro y afuera de la literatura argentina (2006). She has been a fellow of the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Social Science Research Council, and the Civitella Ranieri Foundation. She has served as President of the Modern Language Association of America and of the Instituto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana and holds an honorary degree in humane letters from Tulane University.

In 2007 she created the MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish, with the collaboration of Lila Zemborain and Mariela Dreyfus. The MFA is the first program of its kind in the United States. It is modeled along the lines of the NYU MFA in Creative Writing in English, taking advantage as well of a similar, bilingual Program, at University of Texas at El Paso. Classes and workshops are taught in Spanish and students are mostly Spanish, Latin American or Latino.

Reviews

[Molly Nash · Rating 3 out of 5]

beautifully poignant. think this is best read in a more concise amount of time, so a reread is in order.

she writes of ache and longing, love and fear, desire and disdain in such a raw way.

I definitely liked and disliked it, a difficult unrewarding piece that is simultaneously immersive and intuitive.

[Penelope Lowenstein · Rating 5 out of 5]

Pfft!! Been there!!! Five stars! !!!

[Egger · Rating 4 out of 5]

I don’t know why I picked this up, I just liked the liminal book cover; it’s also faded and a bit distressed, made it more attractive.

Part One

One
“The woman she was waiting for is not coming”, I don’t know why that made me laugh; relatable. “She knows that to name is a ritual, neither more nor less important than the recording of a trivial sentence”, that’s kind of harsh to say it like that; it can also be fond, and blissful as well, but I can see how that leads. “the mask of the name she remembers, of the name she uttered or thought she uttered, has been changed to another one, more satisfactory because more distant”, that is something very comfortable, I find myself doing that, either an arbitrary label or just the term “friend”, to merely describe something vague, knowing there’s a misaligned layer underneath. “In recording this reality she impoverishes, discolors it”, that is the most relatable statement ever, I always want to capture how I feel whenever I’m on my own, well, I’m always on my own; but all is better lived when written, it’s just the physical manifestation of my voice never truly understands, my eyes speak better. “Although she writes it with fury, something in her is grateful for that absence”, I sometimes feel this way, there’s always a kind of embarrassing plea to ask for some spent time; I’ve sort of developed a cause because of it, I love you just enough for me to not miss you, anything else is genuine intimacy, yet I’ll continue to watch from afar. “Order is what she wants to impose whenever she feels the threat of a shared vagueness, of an emptiness invading her emptiness”, I love this so much, I am one in the same but instead of vagueness, it’s uncertainty, linger, a fissure of permanece; I rather have it be true regardless for how I feel, it’ll pass, it passes, I’ll contradict and forget. “And Renata, the one she was waiting for, is not coming”, it’s funny, a name does truly make it more ritualistic; it’s intimate to utter someone, especially since they’ll never know; only the one that listens to me ramble.

Two
“How can one believe a voice and then deny it?— Renata has not come to see her and in order to disguise her absence she needs to fill this room”, I feel like both statements are very contradictory, they have a slight want, a reaction; somewhere where these emotions can land and dispel itself, maybe a form of pessimism to conceal how they truly feel. Okay, maybe not pessimism, maybe that’s just my personal mouth speaking, but that is a thing we all do to mitigate how one truly feels when left with this feeling; some are harsher than others for example me being pessimistic, and others slowly erode over time like indifference. “She does not know want to forget skin or bodies; above all, she does not want to forget voices”, again very relatable, but I can’t quite see this a pretty contradictory to say knowing how she feels about writing and overall it being “ritualistic” to merely just think of someone, you’ll often more than forget trying to avoid acknowledging than letting it linger; at last with that there’s no intention for, it’s almost inevitable. “when someone told her recently that she liked her voice and had written something about it, she thought that she would like to read that in order to hear herself”, I love that, despite it having some sense of alienation, that is so intimate for me.

Three
“The memory of that defect, today, is very precise— even irritating— but surely she did not look at that sleeve then the way she looks at it now”, this a very specific feeling, like disappointment for not making it a much less bigger meaning, if that makes sense; it’s like realizing a playful hint was given at that time, unbeknownst.

Four
“She arrived late at the cafe where they were to meet; she had walked for a long time, aimlessly, after coming out of the phone booth, after seeing the woman in the bathroom, once again her back turned, methodically brushing her hair, and getting ready to go out. She could not see the face in the mirror. She was going to see Renata”, I cringe, not because it’s bad or anything, but because it’s very relatable, I’ve probably though to write something like this before; uneven reciprocation, unlikely but playful enough to wonder, that almost angst to see someone, I can almost relive it. “She is writing of past that is almost immediate”, what the fuck? I love that, I love that immensely; my memory fleeting as I try to capture how I felt during and during after, but before.

Five
“A ritual she does not control, and feels she need not control, a ritual in which she has no fixed role, in which she neither observes, nor spies on, nor is bored: a ritual which she enjoys”, there’s this spot in Newport Beach, it’s called “The Wedge”, it’s like a surfers spot, I usually tend to find myself there, it’s the one spot in my like to be vicinity; there’s a line of rocks that I often venture for, majority of the time I just sit there. Sort of forgot where I was going with this, but sometimes as I realize the drive there, ideas come to me and only to me, what to say or think, something daring to write; my moment of self expression surely thought of, more likely it disappears, the ocean, it’s always that. “If she went far away, she told herself (far away from what? she is always on the run), she would write”, I’d say I’m the same way, sometimes I’d simply just go somewhere, maybe to write, maybe a finding for inspiration, it usually fades though, intention is always difficult, my intention is none; there’s not really much to gain for me, it’s not why. “She does not sleep at all during the night, but writes elatedly, compassionately, trying not to hurt herself”, insomnia is something that takes effect on me, very often at times, sometimes I feel like it’s an urge to jot the deepest of, majority of the time it reveals itself as soon as some sleep is possible; ironic somewhat, translucent thoughts that drowsily come to me, out of boredom, and lack of rest. “She remembers from that night, as she will from this one, only an empty ritual of words: a certain pleasure in syntax, a certain lingering over connectives, the delight in repeated invocations”, I simply enjoy hearing other perspectives of a shared experience, it’s the closest way of living, my girlfriend has an odd way of speaking about me, maybe not odd, to me definitely, but I’ll always listen and laugh at her part in meeting me; even if I’ve heard it before and before and continue to do so, there’s something so about it, she’s not the only who’ve done this.

Six
“She could never accept her mother’s declaration as an empty formula, always fearing that she would in fact die”, what an estranged thought, it’s very relatable, sometimes I do actually find myself noticing her breathing patterns, like a dear fear for reason; if she’s alive I’m alive, so naive.

Part Two

One
“wondering what provoked those two unexpected, oblique encounters with Vera, one by means of memory, the other imposed from without”, I sometimes wonder if anyone has ever experienced that about me, maybe I get brought up assumably, and a converse concerning myself occurs; yet, I can’t quite understand why though, it’d be better for me to think of you. I feel like I talk about those I love with those I love, I could never really tell if what I bring up causes a sort of connection, I usually just pick up from what was left, maybe even forget why, time always does tend to mitigate crumbled connections; a reverb of sorts, permanence.

Two
“Vera acts like a parvenu in the relations she establishes, in those she tries to reestablish. Everything— love, literature, revenge, even the slightest contact with others— must happen with extravagance, with excess”, parvenu is something I’ve never heard of, but the way she’s described can almost be relatable, I’ve had friends of mine sort of describe me as difficult, or “you just can’t have friends”; something deeper than it usually is, I’ll always treat my friendships like a relationship, because that’s what it is, there’s no attachment sometimes, I’ll reciprocate an opposite always. “Everything—love, literature, revenge, even the slightest contact with others— must happen with extravagance, with excess”, I find myself victim to causing this, sometimes the way I express to those I love can seem either too much or passionate, something like that, a gift to me dies once I give it, I claim ownership owing it to you, but I have no control over what after; I’m pretty deliberate when in comes to that, I’m not really one to put as much thought, but it leads to seem like.

Three
“She wants just to feel, to recognize herself entirely in the heavy, inert body that, as soon as she paid attention to it, began to ache less”, I don’t know why, but I weirdly understand this dilemma, sometimes shared space isn’t enough, I need to merge my thinking with yours, only for a moment; I need to understand every single little arbitrary and irrational existence that spurs from that mind and soul you gift to me, and suddenly forget immediately after. But we have something no one else can explain otherwise; it’s like wanting more out of an experience, not ever knowing why or how that’ll be, so you just enjoy what’s given. “She is attracted by hands, is attracted today by her own”, I love this, I don’t know what it is, but I always have an affinity for something, I’d say it’s desire for someone I know wouldn’t be truly; its not necessarily a bad thing I don’t have this with my current relationship, but it’s always an almost nervous warmth, like a guilt or shaking of composure. Maybe it’s because I know, maybe uncertainty gives it that edge, that nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, a could’ve always seems more than actually; I may not feel that way currently, but I’m glad I don’t, it’s an unkept reciprocation. Rather simple. “The contact satisfied her but ultimately she felt detached, observing in detail something she could not completely understand”, whether or not this indicates intimacy or sexuality, I feel like this is common or relatable to those who experience such at a young age; very relatable to me, like a weird inverted taboo.

Four
“All she has of Renata are bits and pieces of a childhood, fragments that do not cohere into a living image, very different from the deliberate epiphanies that Vera offered her”, this is a weird type of long, I understand the almost frustration of wanting to just learn more about someone, how they think, what they feel, why; almost naive and very fun experience looking back.

Five
“Nothing of what she has written about Vera, of what brought them together long ago, of what she recalls from that period, and of the more recent encounter, none of that matches the woman with whom she parted at the elevator”, I have letters and unwrapped gifts I plant to give to those I love, and I often find myself drafting upon drafting what to write, majority of the time I feel like it’s too intimate, too honest, too written; in a weird way I sort of gift a captured version of myself, majority of the majority I often forget what contains in what I write, I’ll sometimes like to compare the transcript to what was given, even if I hardly like to not know remembering. “She is disarmed by the new intimacy created by the familiar tone, yet at the same time feels sure, as she has never felt before with Vera, that her own words count”, it’s a weird sentiment feeling that’s relatable, like an equivalent of mutually grieving someone you both didn’t really know, you were part of it, but merely just a part; not fully integrated. It’s like knowing an outcome of, but not knowing how to make sense of it, a weird and shared ache; it’s like when I realized it just wouldn’t work between us, an acknowledgment between our languages, a fictional barrier that celebrates because it’s over.

Six
“She would like to hear that conversation, to record it’s every detail, to steal that image of herself which Renata is creating and so destroy it”, there’s been times when I’ve been let known or had a hunch that I’ve been mentioned, majority of the time it truly doesn’t grasp at me, but sometimes if it’s truly playful, I’d like to know what’s spoken of me; especially if it’s terrible, I find humor in it, something about wasting thoughts just about me, majority it’s a reflection of sorts. “In the moment of giving, when she observed the impassive face and the polite gesture, she felt impotent: she would never know whether Renata liked her gift, and Renata would never let her know”, I feel like that’s the gift of giving, weird thought, but I never understand the point of handing a receipt for a gift, I understand if it’s half-assed and there’s no confidence in what’s given; but what’s the point in giving then? Maybe, it’s just me. I can’t relate to that, okay maybe a little, I almost get embarrassed when someone opens a gift I gave them, it’s cringe how I seem to put though into things, or from their perspective it seems; I see, I get. Regardless though, it’s almost playful whenever it’s opened, it’s like a reward that I don’t ever want to claim, but it does bring a joy. “Writing is really a form of erasure in order to keep going”, bullshit, as much as I’d like to believe a truth, it’s just not; writing is self expression itself, to live again despite living once, you’re alive in my words and whether you become lost in language; I wrote about you. “she discovers today that she loves Renata yet cannot say it. So she continues to write, to cross out, impatiently”, I believe I’ve done that before, thing is, yes it’s vulnerable, but there’s a love in looking back; I actually enjoy rebutting to what used to be written, whether I continue to agree or not, the dialogue with my words lives enough once more.

Seven
“If she has not recorded moments of shared happiness from those days, it is because they did not exist, or perhaps because she did not know how to recognize them”, I sometimes feel a burnout, not from writing, but I simply just find myself not writing what, despite it being; by the time I realize, the days gone, I’m home in bed, and I simply won’t write: the day itself was enough. Sometimes the opposite does happen though, maybe a conversation or a moment of an experience tends to be so much, I simply can’t replicate it in language, better lived but sometimes I’d love to just perfectly capture every little minute detail, from the way I internally feel, to what provokes my eyes; again, i simply just don’t.

Eight
“She is driven only by the desire to leave these for walls that now hold so many things”, there’s certain places that hold something to me, Laguna Beach, The Wedge, Boardner’s by La Belle, Mickey’s Irish Pub, others that I seem to not think of remembering; every now and then I’d stop by and see, sometimes the thought of going back to these places seem more pleasant than actually going; it’s not the place, rather it’s what was left from it, maybe it’s my stubbornness to recreate something, it’ll always be there, just not simply enough for.

Nine
“But she knows that Renata— the only woman she has ever loved— will go back to the place she has made for herself, with someone else. They will not meet again”, the idea of not seeing someone again is very surreal, kind of an obvious take, but it’s true; you spend so much time growing into yourself, the process of losing bonds doesn’t really seem to work, a kindling rebirth for youth, it just never really seems to be noticed, it just happens. Memory takes its place, and eventually if remembered, as good and as bad, but it’ll remind me from time to time. “Unprotected, she clings to the pages she has written so as to not lose them, so as to be able to reread herself and continue to live, waiting for a woman she loved who, one day, broke a date. She is alone: she is very frightened”, I used to miss something, maybe I still do, I just don’t know, but something tends to be missed; I am now in a relationship, nothing of misinterpretation or miscommunication, two bodies that stand mere side for side, I really do enjoy our presence. Something happened, but I don’t really recall this feeling of long as I used to, its acceptance of what could’ve and what truly is; my partner is with me, unbelievable at times, even if disappointed, the experience itself is real for me to share.

[Alyssa · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read this book as an assignment for a course on queer cultures and democracy where we discuss how queer/gay/lesbian/trans actors and movements have been integral in historical and political processes, rather than incorrectly assigning them a tangential, almost elective, if you will, role in formations of democracies around the world. First and foremost, Molloy created this work from a place of diaspora-- through Argentine by nationality, she wrote the novel in upstate New York. She published the book both in Spanish (En breve carcel) and in English.

The novel begins in a room with a third person narrator that describes a certain woman in a room in a nameless city. This woman, we learn, is the protagonist of the novel, however she remains unnamed. The woman is a writer who relies on the process of writing in order to make sense of the world around her, past lovers, her families, and most importantly, herself and her experience as a woman who loves other women. Though obviously a novel on the subject, not once in the text is the word "lesbian" used.

We learn that this woman uses writing as a tool for reflection, and upon reflection on her memories of her sister, Clara, and two lovers, Renata and Vera (both of who have been, at one time, in a relationship with the woman, but also with each other), and her childhood, she fashions her own understanding of herself. It is writing that allows her to plunge herself deep into exploration that physical means, with her own body, would be impossible. On the other hand, the woman uses writing to with haste and desperation sew together and morph to her liking fragments of memories and voices to create a beautiful piece of writing that explores the interiority of lesbian sociability that is perhaps inexpressible except through writing. Far from an uplifting read, (for she writes on dreams of being flayed) the novel beckons for a curious reader into the private mind of a woman in pain who loves deeply other women. The ending is up for interpretation. The entirety of the text is written and told from within one room (that belonged to her previous lover) and at last in the last chapter the woman finds herself at an airport having left the room, as if she had completed her project of locking away, at least for the moment, the memories and the person she had become in that room, in the papers that she clutches soberly at the airport. I found it a rather optimistic ending. I also think I need to journal more.

[Virgowriter (Brad Windhauser)]

Very interesting book, but not one you would read casually. The author challenges you to piece together the story with all the main character's memory fragments. And keep your queer theory handy to guide you through the concepts. Still, a lot of interesting ideas and a useful ending message about dealing with your past before trying to move forward into a scary, uncertain future that is life.