by Antonio di Benedetto (1964)

2025 reads, 10/25:

Music, which is sound, becomes noise when it is imposed. Imposed music.

I am continuing my descent into Antonio di Benedetto’s unofficial “trilogy of expectation” with his 1964 novel The Silentiary. Fast forward over 150 years after the events of Zama: independence from Spain was gained in the early 1800s, new nations were formed, and economies were opening up to the rest of the world. We follow the narrator, an unnamed office worker in an unnamed Latin American city, through his daily life as he attempts to write a novel. But after reading The Silentiary, it is clear that di Benedetto’s vision of a man lost in himself, waiting for something, anything, to happen, stays constant.

The early afternoon sun licks at my window. No noise comes from behind it. The headboard of my bed is a bookcase full of novels, some inherited from my father, some selected by me. I accept their contagion. Perhaps today is the day I’m meant to begin writing my book.

But it’s a more specific desire than in Zama – as you may have surmised by the title, the narrator desires silence over anything else. At the beginning of the novel, an auto repair shop opens up next to the narrator’s house, which acts as the catalyst for his quest of complete silence. He drags his family along with him to move an inane number of times, constantly complaining about how the noise is preventing him from working on his book.

A majestic pounding of iron against iron. A propagation of sound waves like layers of metal being tortured in the air until they escape across the grasslands.

I gotta say, some of the quotes are relatable. I mean, who hasn’t felt anger or frustration at just hearing noise outside when you’re trying to focus or relax (the lawnmowers around our neighborhood always seem to come at the worst times).

But I am beginning to see why this is called the “trilogy of expectation,” as the main characters in these novels do not push for change themselves – they expect it to happen to them. They are passive in this world that owes them. The desires of these characters are constantly reiterated, but no work is put in to attain said desires. Di Benedetto writes as if surrealism comes from the side characters (such as the narrator’s mom, or his love interest), as they are only around in fleeting instances. But, taking a step back and looking at this world outside of our narrators head, we realize it is them who is not always with us.

I mused with bitterness—and perhaps without justification—that if they don’t mind having their thoughts disrupted, it’s because they don’t think that much.

I will now head ten more years into the future for the final installment of di Benedetto’s trilogy, The Suicides, taking place in Argentina in the late 1960s. I’ll see you there.

#readingyear2025 #latinamerica #nyrb

by Augusto Monterroso (1978)

2025 reads, 8/25:

HERE LIES EDUARDO TORRES, WHO, HIS WHOLE LIFE LONG, CAME, SAW, AND WAS PERPETUALLY DEFEATED AS MUCH BY THE ELEMENTS AS BY THE SHIPS OF THE ENEMY

Imagine writing you own epitaph, years before your death, and releasing it to the public for comment. This self-aggrandizing act is just one among many in Augusto Monterroso’s only novel, The Rest Is Silence. This book is the January selection of the 2025 New York Review Books book club, a Christmas gift from my mom. (Thanks mom!) Each month, NYRB will send me a newly published novel from their catalog, usually a recently-translated work, brought to new light (at least for me).

This novel takes the form of a festschrift (a new word I learned, from German, literally meaning “celebration writing” or “commemoration document”), a collection of documents, articles, works, and tributes honoring some respected person. The entirety of The Rest Is Silence is thus a festschrift of the fictional literary critic Eduardo Torres, whose epitaph is written above. The blurb mentions him as something of a “Don Quixote,” but after reading this I get whiffs of Dorain Gray and maybe, maybe Hunter S. Thompson. Though, this fawning over Torres really only takes place in the first part of the book. For example, see how his “friend” describes him:

Through the high and broad French windows bursts an agitated mass of sunbeams, five or six of which descend to nest lovingly on the high and somewhat grizzled head of our biographee. The diminutive particles of dust revolving through said light might suggest to an observer–recalling Epicurus–the plurality of worlds.

Absolute suck up.

I do wish I had read Don Quixote before this, though, because there seem to be many allusions to it. In Part II: Selections from the Work of Eduardo Torres, one such work is Torres’ fictional introduction to the novel, followed by a criticism of said introduction. This was an interesting pair of essays to read, but I would have gotten more out of it had I been more well-versed in Don Quixote (and the overall Mexican literary scene, as many references were made to philosophers and artists of the time).

That thanks to contemporary experience, it is recognized continent-wide that the best way of losing interest in the works of other authors consists of getting to know them personally.

The Rest Is Silence elevates the concept of “meta” to a new level. Memories are written and then rebuked in later chapters. There are connections made between the works, there are article clippings, poems, even some hilarious drawings (that further elucidate the utter brashness of Torres). And despite the conceited subject of this festschrift, there are some really great quotes and ideas here about artistry in general and what it means to be an artist. Honestly, I loved the format of this, almost like short stories that shared a common connection. While I’m sure there are plenty other books out there that use this format, I can confidently say this one pulled it off magnificently. Starting off strong for the 2025 NYRB Book Club!

When you have something to say, say it; when you don’t, say that was well. Never stop writing.

#readingyear2025 #nyrb #nyrbbookclub #latinamerica